Category: My stories

Johnny Sanders rode the bus to school, but his mother was worried about a lack of seat belts.
She complained to the superintendent.
“What happens if they crash?” she asked.
The superintendent said that buses were designed differently than cars, and safer.
“If it means so much to you, drive Johnny to school, live close enough for him to walk, or homeschool.”
So, she homeschooled Johnny. And he got into a great college.
He became a teacher, then a school administrator.
But by then, schools were all online, and there were no more buses.
Or worried mothers, thanks to cloning.

I walked around the local school, through the bushes and trees, and peered in the window of the kindergarten classroom.
The posters… the construction paper chains hanging from the ceiling… the desks…
Everything was so fascinating.
The school.. the neighborhood… the fire engine jungle gym…
The perfect white-and-brick houses with friendly roofs and lawns and flowers and fences.
The side door outside which students would line up every morning before going inside, and one day, I would take my place.
But not yet. It was still the summer before my first day of school.
To run free without a care.

These days, more people read the news online than subscribe to a newspaper.
Some day in the future, the last newspaper will roll off of the presses.
Reporters empty their desks into cardboard boxes, and they go home to start blogs, Twitters, and YouTube channels.
The last paper boy will wrap that paper in a plastic bag, pedal to his last subscriber’s house, and toss that last paper on that house’s roof.
Over the next few weeks, that paper will get soaked by the rain, rot into a disgusting lump, and then get blasted into oblivion with a power washer.

There’s something about hot dogs at ballgames.
It doesn’t matter if you do mustard or ketchup, relish or chili and cheese.
It’s the hot dog. The hot dog is what matters.
When it’s just peanuts, popcorn, cracker jack and beer in the stands…
I’ve seen it. And I can’t unsee it.
The diamond is sacred. The game eternal.
That San Francisco crowd wanted kale chips, microbrews, Coke Zero, and sushi.
AT&T Park went up like an atom bomb. You could see it from Oakland.
Millions died.
So, we throw out the first pitch, take that first bite, and play ball.

Despite his heavy workload in the genetics fabrication lab, Joe followed the headlines as best as he could.
And when the Supreme Court rules that same-sex marriage was a civil right, he knew that it was only a matter of time.
“What about identical twins?” he asked an attorney friend.
“That’s just… wrong,” they said.
Joe sighed, hung up the phone, and stared through the glass wall of the fabrication tank.
Staring back from the tank, Joe Prime twitched and shuddered from the tiny shocks that the holographic micro-current neuroinducer used to copy Joes memories into his brain.
And smiled.

When it comes to Italian food, some folks swear by Buca di Beppo.
I think it means Joe’s Basement. Although buca in Italian is a hole.
Which in some cities, it is. The health code violation reports are longer than your arm.
Me, I prefer to eat in the attic. It’s quieter up there.
Although there’s spiders and dust. Yuck.
The garage? The cars take up too much room.
The kitchen? Well, you know your food will get to your table quickly, but it sucks you see something great that you didn’t order.
At least it’s not fucking Oliver Garden.

It’s date night.
We’re at the pizza parlor, you and me.
A table for two. With a candle in a wine bottle.
A violin player going from table to table.
Napkins and menus, a classy place.
You ask me what I want on my pizza.
What do I want on my pizza?
I want my lips on it.
I want my teeth, gums, and lips on it.
I want my tongue on it.
I want my saliva and gastric juices on it.
I want it all.
The waiter blinks, says he’ll be back, and puts down a basket of breadsticks.

Are you coughing?
Go see a doctor.
There are lots of them out there.
Some are short. Some are tall.
Some are skinny. Some are fat.
Some smell really nice.
They come in a variety of colors.
Some are in hospitals. Others are in malls.
And then there’s the ones in back alleys.
You don’t want to see them for a cough.
Some doctors carry sonic screwdrivers and say “I’m sorry” a lot.
You don’t want to see them for a cough, either.
So, go see a doctor.
There are lot of them out there.
And some smell really nice.

Boris slept like a rock. A bomb could go off, and he wouldn’t wake up.
Vanya liked to use her lipstick to draw on Boris while he slept.
He wasn’t ticklish, so she had plenty of time to draw on him.
She’d draw stick figures and bird, other animals.
Or she’d draw mountainscapes and seashore scenes.
She put a lot of effort into her work, switching to mascara brushes and eyeliner for fine details.
Her favorite was on Friday. She would write FR on Boris’ left thigh and DAY on his right thigh.
You know where she drew the I.