Category: My stories

Bob was a censor for a social media corporation.
It doesn’t matter which one, really.
There are a lot of people like Bob at all of the social media corporations.
All day long, he’d look through flagged images and content, judging whether something violated the platform’s standards.
Awful things. Horrible things. Hellish things.
And three buttons to click on: YES, NO, and ESCALATE.
Over and over again, all day, and all night.
Bob looked around the gigantic room.
Rows of people at computers, reviewing similar horror and filth, judging it.
Until all they knew was the evil in the world.

The voices in Bobby’s head told him to do things.
“Clean your room,” they said.
So, Bobby cleaned his room.
“Mop up the mess in the kitchen,” they said.
So, Bobby mopped up the mess in the kitchen.
“Make the back yard took nice,” they said.
So, Bobby bought plants and grass and flowers, and he planted them.
The voices walked Bobby through a list of chores, and Bobby dutifully did them all.
By the time the police arrived, there wasn’t a single shred of evidence left that he’d killed his parents.
Just as the voices told him to do.

King Frederick climbed Oracle Mountain to seek the wisdom of the gods.
“Go away,” said The Oracle, throwing an empty bottle away and opening another.
“I’ve come to seek-”
“Yes,” said The Oracle. “Your future. The answers. Everybody does.”
Frederick drew his sword “If you don’t tell me what my-”
“I’ll die,” said The Oracle. “You’ll die. Everybody dies. But if you look past the daily bullshit, you’d know that already. Simple truth.”
The king stood there for a moment, put his sword away, and gave The Oracle a hug.
They sat on the mountain, drank, and watched the sunset.

You send me messages, you bang on the door, but I don’t feel like talking.
Most people say “I don’t feel like talking” but that’s talking.
And I don’t feel like talking. At all.
So, I don’t respond at all.
More messages. More screams. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
I know why, and I could tell you, boy, could I tell you.
But, once again, I don’t feel like talking.
So, I say nothing.
For days… weeks…
The nights are colder, quieter.
And I reach for the door to the basement.
But you’ve probably starved to death by now.

It’s not a good idea to get between Jason and his vegetable soup.
Jason really likes vegetable soup, and he’ll do anything to get it.
Sure, Jason is in a wheelchair, and he has a robot that spoons vegetable soup to his mouth, but that robot arm can do some nasty things.
Once, this nurse got between Jason and his vegetable soup.
She isn’t his nurse anymore.
She barely survived, and ended up in a wheelchair, also being fed soup by a robotic arm.
Jason likes to park his wheelchair between her and her soup, just to rub it in.

Popular culture moves so quickly these days.
It’s hard to manufacture relevant and topical Halloween costumes in time to reach the market.
By the time something hits the shelves, it’s already passe and out of date.
Sure, you could make your own, but that takes effort.
And, once again, by the time you finish sewing and gluing, it’s already out of date.
That’s why Melvin uses his 3D printer to manufacture his costumes.
He uses a series of colored resins to fabricate the suit and mask and gloves.
Directly on to his body.
That way, the painful screams are genuine.

They called him Roger the Butcher.
Never mind that he went by his middle name “Edgar.”
Or that he wasn’t a butcher. He was a plumber.
Nor was he butchering his victims.
He preferred to just whack them on the back of the head with a pipe.
But the papers didn’t like the name “Edgar the Whacker.”
So they call him “Roger the Butcher” because that sounded better.
Edgar had already picked out a domain name, registered a trademark, and established a social media presence.
So he started whacking reporters.
“WHAT’S MY NAME?” he shouted.
“EDGAR THE WHACKER!” they screamed.

Teddy got his first witch hunting license when he was thirteen.
Before that, Teddy’s dad would bring him along, but wouldn’t let him do more than carry an equipment bag.
“Thirteen is old enough,” said Teddy’s dad, handing Teddy a torch and pitchfork. “These were your grandfather’s, and now they’re yours.”
They set up a blind in the old creepy woods by a growth of deadly nightshade.
The witches came to harvest under the full moon.
Teddy bagged two sorceresses, and his dad tied them to the roof of the jeep.
They burned them at the stake in the backyard.