Category: My stories

I have post-its on my monitors like Leonard Shelby in Memento has tattoos.
Keep it brief.
Nobody wants your ideas.
I’ll get back to you on that.
Do not trust.
Make a list and stick to it.
Don’t take the bait.
It’s only a job.
Not my problem.
Go ask the boss.
They’re not your friends.
Years of fighting, years of abuse.
Years of being put down.
These are the scars across my career.
These are the echoes in my head.
These are the warning signs on the barrier that keep me from jumping over the edge and into oblivion.

Fendy Sound is dangerous waters, piloted by brave ferryboat captains, who charged a fortune for a crossing.
So, Fendy Island built a bridge to the mainland
The town celebrated their new permanent connection to the rest of the country.
Except Mungo Dirge, Captain of the Ferryboat Guild.
“The bridge toll is less than ours!” complained the ferryboat pilots. “We’re ruined!”
“Fill the Elissa with dynamite, sail her over to the main pile, and set her ablaze,” he ordered. “We’ll have our business back.”
So, they loaded up the Elissa with dynamite.
Which exploded at the docks, annihilating the other ferryboats.

Ted isn’t a good administrator, but it’s so hard to fire people from this state-run research hospital.
Also, he’s the nephew of one of the boardmembers. He’s not going anywhere.
Especially after we lured him into the new South wing of the hospital that’s under construction.
We tied him up and immersed him in fresh concrete.
Smoothing out the slab to make sure there’s no sign of Ted was a challenge, but not as much as making it look like he took a trip out of town and simply vanished.
His phone started ringing, but thankfully, the battery died quickly.

It took a long time for Trina to recover from the attack.
After years of therapy, she got over her fear of homeless people.
Now, she was filled with searing hatred for them, and what they did to her.
At first, she’d dress up as a nun and hand out poisoned sandwiches to beggars.
But they wanted money, So, she handed out counterfeit money.
She made big plans for the city’s charity Thanksgiving feast.
Forty-three jugs of tainted gravy.
Thousands of people died. It was like Jonestown.
Trina went from body to body, offering prayers, and trying not to grin.

Ever been in a water balloon fight?
Buy a bag of balloons, fill them with water, fill up a pillowcase, and start throwing them at everyone else?
It’s fun. And a great way to keep cool in the summer.
But not fun on the bus. Or the subway. Or on a plane.
Still, I buy the balloons, and fill them up.
But I fill them with urine.
I get on the Lexington Avenue line, and wait for the train to fill up with suits.
“Next stop, Wall Street,” the voice announces.
I reach into my pillowcase, grin, and begin throwing.

It’s not every day you see a unicorn. They’re an endangered species.
Just my luck, I’m looking at one through my rifle scope.
It’s standing between me and the deer I’ve been tracking.
It knows it’s in my way. It’s doing this to piss me off.
It’s taunting me. Daring me to shoot.
I unchambered the round and lowered my rifle.
Bastard.
That’s then the unicorn charged.
I tried to raise my rifle and fire at the beast, but the son of a bitch gored me and threw me into the thicket.
No wonder why these nasty fuckers are endangered.

To prove how easy it is to get an assault rifle, reporters have been going to gun shops and purchasing AR-15s and ammunition.
The problem is, what do the reporters do with these rifles after they buy them?
Some turn them back in to the gun store for a refund. For others to buy.
Some turn them in to the police, who auction them off.
Some leave the gun in their closet. No child safety lock or gun safe.
So, their kids might come across the gun and… shoot themselves? Shoot others?
More proof how dangerous guns are, of course!

Every time there’s a tragedy or terrorism or bombing.
Or worse.
We are all…
Parisians.
New Yorkers.
Barcelonans.
Orlando.
Charlie.
We change our Facebook and Twitter icons.
We post our hashtags.
Je Suis… what is it today?
Except, not always.
There’s one exception:
Israel.
Oh, it’s not Anti-Semitism, it’s Anti-Zionism.
How dare you accuse me of that, you filthy Jew?
Go back to where you came from.
Well, we did. And they want to kill us there, too.
Fifty-seven hundred years, we’ve watched empires rise and fall.
We’ll watch yours rot and crumble, too, as the next takes its place.

The blood wasn’t even dry when the investigators went into the club.
Counting the bodies and bullets and shell casings.
Measuring this, photographing that.
Puling out wallets, looking in purses. Identifying the dead so others could tell their families.
The ones who were calling over and over.
The cell phones rang. So many of them.
A mad symphony surrounded the investigators.
One had a gunfire ringtone.
They set that phone to vibrate.
It fell off of the evidence table.
And it danced on the floor, skittering around in a circle.
Over and over.
As its brothers and sisters played on.

They say that watching paint dry is boring, but have you ever done bodypaint?
That’s not boring to watch, although you’re not really watching the paint dry.
You’re looking at the body.
The best bodypainting doesn’t look naked at all, but you still sense that something’s unusual about it.
And then you see it. And you can’t unsee it.
That person is naked, and what you thought were clothes are actually painted on.
Or stripes. Or some other pattern.
That’s a powerful magic, really.
And here we are, you and me.
And some paint and a brush.
Who goes first?