Category: My stories

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?

We’re building a new feature at work.
This is the third attempt to build something.
The first two were cut short by management and then finished by another company for us.
So why should I waste time caring about this feature?
It will get farmed out like the other two.
All the while, they’re paying me.
Roadblocks. Obstructions. Lack of input from customers.
“So let us talk to the customers,” we say.
“Can’t,” management says. “Privacy policy.”
So, we guess what the customer wants, and we work in a vacuum.
Until we’re cut short, and end up on another project.

John Madden had three rules for his team:
Be on time, pay attention, and play like hell.
And his players were on time, paid attention, and they sure played like hell.
One of the Madden rules wasn’t “Wear a suit and tie on the plane.”
He said that kind of crap never won a damn game, so he didn’t care what they wore as long as they wore their pads and jerseys on the field.
As long as they were on time for the flight.
I wonder if Madden’s Raiders still alive will wear suits and ties for his funeral.

This apartment complex has gone downhill as of late, and the kind of people they’re bringing in are getting worse and worse.
We’ve had good luck with upstairs neighbors being quiet, but the latest is a single mother with kids that run and stomp around and scream and throw tantrums.
I filed complaints, but nobody’s done anything.
So I went upstairs, knocked on the door, and complained about the noise.
She said “Fuck you.”
Then I held out a hundred bucks.
“Fuck you,” repeated the bitch.
“No, this is for YOUR upstairs neighbors to stomp around,” I said. “Fuck YOU!”

I hung a set of wind chimes from a tree branch near my fence.
I’d post a video of the wind chimes, but it’s not all that windy.
And even when it is, the wind never kicks up the sail so the clapper goes into the tubes.
And the raindrops jostle the sail a little, but not enough for anything audible over the sound of the rain.
Maybe I will throw a shoe at it?
Will that make it a shoe chimes?
The sail is below the fence line.
I’d raise the wind chimes, but it would annoy the neighbors.

They say that when you seek revenge, dig two graves.
Because most villains have an accomplice.
Or, if they don’t, there will probably be a witness when you get revenge.
And you can’t leave any witnesses.
“I didn’t see nothin’,” says the witness. “I ain’t telling nobody nothin’.”
Yeah, right.
You know what’s better?
Make them dig their own graves.
The worst that can happen is that they say no.
But if they do dig their own graves, at least they save you the effort.
Sure, you’ll need two shovels.
Unless you want them to take turns, that works too.

If you don’t like Basquiat, you’re a racist.
So, call me a racist.
His paintings and drawings were crap.
Same with Cy Twombly, Philip Rothko, and all those other crap-peddlers.
Warhol, too.
Warhol peddled crap.
And for a few years, Basquiat was the crap he peddled.
Philip Seymour Hoffman did heroin with Basquiat.
Basquiat died from a heroin overdose.
So, without Philip doing heroin with him, Basquiat might have lived a few more years.
Making more crap paintings and drawings.
So, thank you, Philip.
But then, he died of a drug overdose.
So, fuck you, Basquiat.
Killing a real talent.

Freddy is prone to getting kidney stones.
He hasn’t gotten them recently, but he’s terrified of getting them again.
And waiting hours in the Emergency Room in dire pain.
So, he changed to a plant-based diet, avoided red meat, and doesn’t drink at all.
And he keeps a supply of the medication on hand, just in case.
“These pills are twenty years old,” says the customs officer at the airport.
“My kidneys are twenty years older, too,” says Freddy. “The pain will be twenty times worse.”
The officer thinks for a moment, stamps Freddy’s passport, and waves him along.
“NEXT!”

The Johnson Twins were professional activists.
Betty made a sign that said STOP THE KILLING!
She used it in abortion clinic protests.
Bertha would take the same sign to executions.
She used it in her protests against the death penalty.
Betty never went to those protests, because she was for the death penalty.
Just as Bertha never went to the abortion clinics to protest because she was pro-choice.
She did go to an abortion clinic to get an abortion, though.
Betty waved the sign in Bertha’s face as she walked in the clinic.
“Don’t make me kill you,” muttered Bertha.

You don’t own Silverdeath.
Silverdeath owns you.
It’s a very powerful sword and it takes over the minds of its bearers.
Sometimes, it’s a big warrior.
Other times, it’s a kid.
Peasants, prostitutes, and princes.
But it’s always the same arrogant tone in their voice.
When Silverdeath gets bored with a bearer, it looks for a new one.
And it’s not enough to abandon that person.
“Kill me,” they say.
Only the strong-willed can resist Silverdeath.
Going out to the forest, burying the cursed blade.
But it calls out for another, promising great power and wealth.
“And bring a shovel.”