Category: My stories

Ecclesiastes tells us that there is nothing new under the sun.
Which makes sense, if you consider that it was written by someone who lives in the desert.
Have you ever tried to come up with a new idea when out in the hot desert sun?
The sun is so draining. The only thing you want is to get out of the sun.
Then, at night, so exhausted, you’d just sleep.
Okay, maybe that’s what inspired tents: to shade yourself from the sun.
Or umbrellas so you can carry shade around with you.
So you can think up something new.

To keep things consistent and readable, our writing group follows a style guide.
Which one?
The one over there on my shelf.
Everybody’s got a copy, and they keep it in their shelf.
Or in their desk drawer.
What? It’s not there?
Golly, I can’t remember the last time I looked at it.
I think we’ve got it stored on the server.
Or perhaps it’s on my Kindle?
Nope. Not there.
Oh. Wait. I know where it is.
It’s in this cardboard box. That I’m filling with my stuff.
I got fired today. For not following the style guide.

Sitting in a classroom in University of Houston Downtown, learning about Plain English at an academic forum.
The train runs by the campus, and you can hear and feel the rumble, and the whistles and bells as it approaches the stop.
The air conditioning whispers quietly, and the shuffling of papers, and sliding of chairs and coughing, and a cell phone rattles on a table.
Another train rumbles by, and students talk to each other as they walk in the hall outside the conference room.
Oh, and the presenter. He’s speaking. Saying something.
I should pay attention to him.

Every morning, dog owners walk their dogs on the sidewalks of the apartment complex.
Some bring plastic bags to pick up poop from the grass, but most don’t. The worst leave dog poop on the sidewalk.
There’s a 20 pound limit for dogs in the lease, and most of the dogs are small dogs, but every now and then, I see someone walking a big dog breed.
They don’t care. The apartment managers don’t care. The dogs don’t care.
The barking and snarling wakes me up again.
I don’t feel so bad about playing the TV loud at night anymore.

Don fell on hard times.
So, we passed the hat for him.
Father Murphy didn’t put anything in the hat because he would pray for Don and ask God to look after him.
Lars Goldsmith didn’t put anything in the hat because it was his business that owned the dumpster that Don was sleeping in, and wasn’t providing shelter charity enough?
Person after person, family after family… they all gave excuses for not giving anything to Don.
I didn’t put anything in the hat, either.
“It’s my hat, after all,” I said, and I put it back on my head.

When Gummi bears hibernate
They roll around in cornstarch
And curl up into little balls
And sleep through the winter
The cornstarch keeps them from sticking
To themselves or each other
This is the best time to hunt them
Because they are slow to awaken
And relatively defenseless
All you need are clean rubber gloves
And plastic ziploc bag pouches
Pick out the Gummi bears
And stick them into the pouches
There’s no need to poke holes
For them to be able to breathe
Suffocating them in the bag
Ensures that they are safe to carry
To the processing plant.

His name is Mr. Jailbreak.
He used to be a bounty hunter, picking up bail jumpers.
But he got too good, and nobody jumps bail anymore.
Now, he breaks guys like you out of jail.
For a fee, of course.
Half up front, half when he gets you out.
In special cases, he can collect it all when you get out.
Try to screw him, and he’ll bring you back in for the reward.
Dead, not alive. He can’t have you telling anybody about your arrangement with him.
He doesn’t do the killing, though.
I do.
Close your eyes, please.

I hate election years.
These aren’t debates.
They’re two-hour commercials
For Subway’s latest
A six-foot long shit sandwich party tray
And everybody has to take a bite
No matter who you support
No matter who the media supports
Your media, my media
It’s all a load of shit
Something about each candidate
A position, an attitude
It’s going to taste bad
But you have to hold your nose and swallow it
Unless
You refuse
You refuse to choose
You refuse to swallow their lies
You refuse to choose one only because you hate them the least
No more shit sandwiches

When I don’t feel well
I fill the tub with hot water
And take a bubble bath
The WiFi barely reaches the tub
But if I angle my phone just right
I can check my email
And refresh Twitter
What I should be doing
Is listening to podcasts
With good and interesting stories
Or music from my library
The signal is too weak
To access the cloud
So I can be inspired to write
My own stories
The more you listen
The more you imagine
The more you write
And explore the world around you
And never leave your home

You can tell when countries don’t like each other when they rename the streets outside of each others embassies.
The host country will name the street after a political dissident in the country of the embassy.
Which is not just annoying to the embassy staff, but their neighbors, too.
The embassy staff only work there. The neighbors are the ones who live there.
Well, okay, most of the neighbors. Some are agents for the host country, spying on the embassy.
But when they’re not listening to hidden microphones or watching captured data streams, they protest just the same.
And wink.