Category: My stories

Since the last time I was on an airplane, I lost forty-five pounds.
I don’t need the seat upgrade anymore.
But I sure do miss the free drinks.
Oh, and the legroom. That’s always a plus.
Where else can you spend thirty bucks to get three more inches for a few hours?
I know for a fact that these blue pills give you less, and they don’t last as long.
Oh, and these upgraded seats have power outlets. Not just USB… the full outlet.
Uh oh. I forgot to charge my phone. I’d better plug in my charger before I…

Johnny made varsity.
Football? Baseball? Basketball?
No. Field hockey. Varsity field hockey.
Yes, I know it’s a girl’s sport, but Johnny’s kinda girly and small.
Still, he’s a feisty little shrimp, and he looks kinda cute in the knee socks and skirt, I suppose.
The other parents raised a huge stink over it with the school board, but it’s not like he’s in the girl’s locker room or showering with them.
No, he’s in the boy’s locker room. Peeking through a hole in the wall and watching his team mates in their locker room while they shower.
That’s my boy!

Tell my friends that I loved them.
Who are my friends?
Good question.
Those who know that I loved them, know.
Those who don’t know that I loved them, it’s my fault for not telling them.
Those who think they know that I loved them, but I didn’t really love, it’s ok. Let them be. Nothing I can do about it now.
Those who hated me, well, let them. Let them enjoy my demise. It won’t last. Someone else will raise their hackles eventually.
And those I hate, well, they can just kiss my cold dead ass. Fuck them all.

After Mom died, Dad needed a little help around the house.
So, he bought a robot grandmother.
No, she didn’t run on electricity, like the grandmother in Ray Bradbury’s story.
This grandmother ran on coal.
She was as big as a locomotive.
And we had to shovel coal into her boiler every twenty minutes.
She belched smoke and ash and carbon monoxide.
We had to keep the windows open, or we’d suffocate.
At least she was warm in the Winter.
When Dad remarried, we packed Grandma into a box. And buried her.
Our real Grandma. Because she died of something.

I woke up in brutal agony.
The right side of my back was absolute murder.
At first, I thought it was food poisoning, but club soda didn’t help.
We went to the hospital, and I waited for two hours in the waiting room, moaning and crying.
Eventually, the doctor saw me, asked me for my symptoms, and said “Probably kidney stones.”
So, they hooked me to an IV, put some painkillers in the drip, and cat-scanned me.
I’d already passed the first stone, but the second stone was brutal.
If I ever donate a kidney, it’ll be the right one.

I woke up in agony.
My first two kidney stones ever. From my right kidney.
They say this is the closest a man can come to experiencing the pain of childbirth.
Except, instead of a 6 to 7 pound baby, it’s 4 millimeter-wide crystals.
I’ll call them AAAAAARGH! and Steve.
My whole life must change.
No more coffee, no more caffeine, no more sodas.
Count my sodium, milligram by milligram.
And lots and lots of water.
So much water.
If I ever need to donate a kidney, for the love of God, take the right one, not the left, okay?

The first explosion bloodies the legs of everyone at the sidewalk cafe.
A bomb filled with screws and nails, covered in rat poison to keep the wounds bleeding.
Smoke and screams, cries for help.
Bind them with napkins and tablecloths until help arrives.
That’s when the second explosion happens.
They meant for it to kill medics and police and the doctors who rushed to help.
Afterwards, the men in bright reflective vests, gathering shredded limbs and bone and fingers, toes in a baby’s shoe, where is the other one, bagging them up, sending them off.
So nobody is buried unwhole.

A lot of good movies are coming to the theater, but at my age, it’s a challenge to make it through an entire movie without needing to go to the bathroom.
Now that I’m on Flomax, it’s even more of a challenge. Just one sip of water or lemonade, and I’m rushing for the toilet.
So, I look at adult diapers. And catheters. And even stranger devices.
Maybe I should just not drink as much before the movie starts?
Nah. I’ll just wait to buy it online on Amazon and watch it at home.
And then for free on Prime.

It’s hard to write stories when you’re doubled over in pain and clutching your gut and back.
You can’t see the screen or reach the keys.
Pen and paper doesn’t work when you’re curled up in a tub of water, crying and waiting for the pills to kick in.
Even voice to text software won’t recognize the words through clenched teeth.
Why why why is this happening?
Why why why is this happening to me?
Make it stop!
Then, the cool wave comes.
Pain floats away.
You can breathe. You can think.
But for how long before the pain returns?

They open the doors and call out a name that isn’t mine.
They open the doors and call out another name that isn’t mine.
Over and over, they open the doors and call out names that aren’t mine.
Why won’t they call my name?
Why won’t they help me?
Why are they letting me suffer in pain?
Why are they making me suffer in pain?
They open the doors and call out a name that isn’t mine.
The pain is too much to take.
I can’t even remember my name.
The door opens, and I scream until I pass out.