Category: My stories

It’s been three years since they diagnosed me.
The disease hits fast. it takes away everything.
There’s not much left I can do.
I can’t do anything for myself.
I’m trapped inside of me. Here.
I can blink. I can look around.
But not much else.
What you’re hearing now is my voice.
But I recorded it, and they processed it.
So I can look at this screen and spell out words.
The computer does the rest.
I piss myself. I shit myself.
A tube in my throat breathes for me.
I can go on for years like this.
Why?

There was a spiral slide in my grandfather’s warehouse.
You’d put a crate or box on the slide, and it would end up at the loading dock for pricing and shipment.
I thought about jumping on that slide and riding down it, but I never did.
Despite my brother’s attempts to shove me on to the slide.
I always wondered why glass bottles of pickles or prune juice didn’t shatter when they went down the slide and hit the rubber stop on the ground floor.
I guess they were packed well in their boxes and crates, with well-designed cardboard spacers.

They’re not like us.
They don’t feel pain like we do.
They don’t think like we do, either.
Sure, they look like they’re suffering, but they really aren’t. It’s just a reflex.
They just look like us, and we project our feelings on to them.
Scientists haven’t been able to explain why they do what they do.
But they agree that they’re not like us.
It’s okay to keep them as pets. Or to cook and eat them.
It’s not like they have a soul. Like us.
Besides, they’re delicious, right? Wouldn’t you miss the flavor, their magnificent delicious flavor?

He puts the bluetooth earpiece on, slides a switch, and he waits for the device to pair.
“Connected,” says a voice.
He then opens the music streaming program on his laptop, selects a station, and clicks “Play.”
Beethoven’s 14th Sonata starts, and he breathes out slowly.
Good. This is good.
He reaches for a book, opens it, and tilts it so that a pencil and highlighter roll out on to his desk.
He reads, marking a few passages here and there for emphasis.
He sips from a glass of water, smiles, and turns the page.
And he reads some more.

Grandmother has a fever again.
We turn the heat off in her room, and we give her pills.
So hard for her to swallow, we crush them up into pudding.
And feed her one spoonful after another.
She stops, won’t open her mouth again.
She clutches the quilt, the one she sewed together so many years ago.
We will bury her in it.
An old jazz station is playing on the radio.
Miles Davis, I think. Or Coltrane.
“Let me go,” she whispers.
The winter ground is hard, but we still dig.
“That’s deep enough.”
And we wait. And wait.

Joe Smith was the greatest actor, winning Academy Awards and Golden Globes and People’s Choice Awards and countless other awards.
He didn’t want to direct or produce or write. Just act.
But as an actor, what more did he have to prove?
So, he challenged himself to become the greatest actress.
Makeup and hair could only go so far, and the tabloids carried round-the-clock news of his surgical transformation.
Then weeks of intense physical therapy and coaching before Jo signed on with a blockbuster project.
Shooting, editing… the hype… and finally…
The movie bombed.
But Jo scored a People’s Choice.

Kids don’t come with a volume control.
Billy says they come with an off switch. In fact, several.
Just hit them hard enough, or stab deep enough, and you’ll get to one eventually.
Sure, that makes a big mess, and it violates the warranty.
Plus, it breaks several laws.
Well, that, and it’s just an off switch. Kinda hard and expensive to turn them back on after that.
And noisy, too.
Billy soundproofed his basement to use as a dungeon, and if it weren’t for a neighbor, things would have gotten messy.
Now, we’ll be looking for Billy’s off switch.