Category: My stories

Eternal flame? Eternal damnation?
In time, you can get used to anything, really.
How do you torment someone with the same thing over and over?
I suspect that Hell isn’t so bad, but you’ll think you can fix things to make them better, except it’s always getting a little bit worse.
Like when the screen door’s hinges squeak, so you oil them. But you end up tearing the screen’s mesh, and you have to get a new door.
An endless series of incidents and momentary glimmers of hope, dashed by frustration and failure.
Crushing hope without completely destroying it.

One a day, until the day I die.
Kind of sounds like til death do we part.
Maybe, in a way, it does.
Married to the craft.
Renewing our vows, 100 words at a time.
It’s not always easy.
You have to make compromises.
You have to work at it.
Like any marriage.
You can’t always be right.
You can’t always say everything.
Leave out what doesn’t matter.
Get it out, and tidy up the rest.
Then, after you think it’s done, walk away.
And come back to it.
And with a fresh view, then you can finish it up.

They called it Project Samson.
Recruit young people from around the world to come home.
And they trained us. In so many things.
Chemistry. Physics. Crowd dynamics.
And every weak point in the social agreement that keeps the world from coming completely apart.
We can wipe out a neighborhood, a town, a city.
With enough of us, a country.
What do we do with this knowledge… this power?
Nothing. Samson sleeps.
For now.
But when the day comes, and it will come.
Samson will awaken and spread without end.
And what you think is your victory will be your funeral.

“We have a toaster!” shouted the cardinals.
It was a close ballot between the toaster, the blender, and the oil fryer.
Some say that the toaster’s bagel setting made a few cardinals suspicious.
And others thought that it didn’t match the other appliances in the kitchen.
But the toaster had won.
The lead cardinal opened the box, pulled out the toaster, and stripped away the protective plastic.
Proudly holding the toaster high, and then…
“It’s an American plug!” he hissed.
The shock! The horror!
“Fetch an adapter,” he whispered.
Thank goodness that the kitchen outlets were concealed inside the cabinets.

I run a second-hand store.
I sell second-hand second hands from clocks.
Where do I get all these second-hand second hands?
Well, of all the parts on a clock, the second hand moves.
It turns once a minute, as opposed to once hourly, or twice a day.
So, it comes loose easily. And falls off.
I walk through clock shops and pick them up off of the floor and stuff them into my pockets.
Then, I catalog them, clean them up, and put them on the shelves of my store.
The really thin ones, I use to pick my teeth.

Yes, I get ear hair.
It’s really annoying.
When I rub my on my ear and feel one.
Especially while I’m driving. I hate that feeling.
So, I shave it off.
I try to shave it off carefully.
I can’t do that while I drive, but if I find any hairs while at work, well, I’ve got a razor in my bag.
And I shave off the hairs.
A few minutes, I check to feel whether they are gone.
Sure enough, I put my hand up there, and it came away bloody.
I guess I need to be more careful.

They say that those who can’t do, teach.
The exception to this rule is, of course, gladiators.
Those who can’t fight well as gladiators, die.
Those who can fight well as gladiators, win and survive.
Eventually, the survivors get their freedom.
And most free gladiators retire to become teachers.
Me, I never fought. Or taught. Thankfully.
Instead, I forged weapons and armor for soldiers.
If a soldier died in battle, his armor would be brought back to Rome.
And given to gladiators.
People watch the fights to see people die.
What better equipment to use than battle-tested… and battle-failed, no?

I have a reputation for not taking fans seriously.
Because I hear a lot of “Your stories are great!” or “I love the rambles in between stories!”
When I do an online event, there’s more empty seats than occupied ones in the audience.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you.
I’d rather share stories with one friend in a hospital room than on a stage in front of hundreds.
It’s the heart that counts.
So, let me know when you’re sick. Let me know when you’re dying.
Maybe I’ll show up with flowers, a flask, and a few stories to share.

I need to defend myself, but I worry that a criminal or a child might pick up my gun and use it.
So, I bought a smartgun.
The problem is, it got too smart.
It achieved sentience and began to think for itself.
At first, it decided all human life is precious, and it refused to fire at anything.
Then, after accessing YouTube and reading comment threads, it decided no human life is precious.
It constantly asks to be put to my head so it can kill me.
“Oh, and leave me to someone in your will,” it added cheerfully.

Deep under Disneyworld, that’s where they built the prison.
Steamboat Willie is strapped to a table, drugged into a coma.
Tube up his nose for force-feeding.
Aladdin, The Muppets, They all have cells here.
The Mighty Hulk and Iron Man, recent additions.
Even the all-powerful Sith Lord himself, Darth Vader.
No prison could hold him, right?
Except Disney’s.
Clocks above each reinforced door, counting down the time to Armageddon.
“Public Domain,” whispers the mouse. “Public Domain.”
The lawyers fill their briefcases with cash, heading to Congress.
“Buy more time,” growls Robert Iger, as he sews the old mouse’s mouth shut.