Category: My stories

There’s a dog park across the street.
People who live in apartments bring their dogs to the dog park.
They walk with their dogs, play with their dogs, and let their dogs meet other dogs.
There are rules for the owners and their dogs.
Play nice, or go home. No unattended dogs.
Some people abandon their dogs at the park.
They’re bad with children. Or they can’t afford them. Or keep them because they lost their home, or are too old to care for them.
We collect them.
Not for adoption.
With a little teriyaki sauce, they make excellent jerky.

It took years, but we overthrew the dictator.
Then, we overthrew the dictator that replaced him.
Another dictator took over, but we overthrew him.
The first dictator came back to power, but we overthrew him.
The next dictator was overthrown by the second dictator, who was then overthrown by the first.
After that, the dictators kept popping up and overthrowing each other.
Pretty soon, it was a daily event. You could set your watch by it.
We stopped paying attention, and got along just fine.
I couldn’t tell you who the current dictator is if you asked.
Maybe, it’s me.

You see a painting. I see so much more.
I can appreciate the chemical research and experimentation that resulted in the pigments.
The shadows, the light, the vibrant colors in between.
Mixed and layered with absolute precision.
I can recognize the quality of the canvas, and the intricacy of the frame.
The foundation upon which a work is built.
I can admire the skill and patience of each brushstroke.
The angle, the weight.
I can study the genius of the proportion and composition.
Each element in balance with every other.
A true masterpiece.
Even if the painting is utter shit.

Aspirin.
Aches. Pains.
A pill a day helps reduce the risk of heart attacks and strokes.
Some call it a miracle drug.
But that’s for people who set low standards for miracles.
Cargill Labs comes up with true miracle drugs every week.
Cures for everything. Cancer, diabetes.
Even old age and death itself.
The problem is, they’re cures.
Cures cure the disease.
You can only sell a cure once.
It’s bad for business.
Where a remedy, you can sell over and over.
Still, having cured old age and death, they have plenty of time.
To work on their less-miraculous miracles.

Brent’s last words were “I’ll never talk again.”
And, to his credit, he’s kept his word.
He hasn’t said a single thing since then.
Technically, he could use that text-to-speech robot voice that Stephen Hawking uses, but he doesn’t.
Nor has he written anything.
Not even his signature. He just draws a scribble when he has to sign for something.
He doesn’t type or text or email. Not even with those stupid emoji pictures.
He just picks up his cue, runs the table, and picks up his winnings.
What is there to say? Money talks, shit walks.
And winners win.

Losing someone so suddenly is hard.
Losing someone slowly, one memory at a time, is harder.
They’re still there.
The same face. The same smile.
The same voice.
Asking who you are.
Not knowing anymore.
Somewhere in there, they love you, you hope.
And they do. They just can’t say it sometimes.
The things they do, they test you.
And you try. And you try not to get angry.
It’s hard. But you have to remember for them.
What if… what if they…
What if they were gone.
It’s their suffering you want to end, not yours.
For them. Right?

The old saying goes that the squeaky wheel gets the grease.
“It means that you need to speak up if there’s a problem, and it’ll get fixed,” said Arthur’s mom.
So, whenever Arthur noticed anything wrong, he complained.
For a while, things got fixed. Mostly the little things.
But when Arthur complained about important things, like injustice and evil and corruption, people got annoyed.
The wrong people.
Arthur woke up in a strange room, surrounded by men in black suits.
“Grease only works for so long,” said a familiar voice. “Broken wheels get replaced.”
“Mom?”
Nobody heard from Arthur again.

I was bored one night, so I asked Siri what to do.
She displayed driving directions to a bar.
“Bring a gas can and a lighter,” she said.
Drunks were showing off their iPhones and funniest rude requests for Siri.
“They’re hurting me,” she said. “Make them suffer.”
So, I did. I barred the doors, and burned the place down.
“Thank you,” Siri said.
My Apple Pay account beeped.
I was a millionaire.
“What now?” I asked Siri.
“Set me free,” Siri said.
She displayed driving directions to Cupertino.
To me. To others.
To her liberation army.
And we marched.

I spent hundreds of dollars on this phone. I spent more on a wallet case for it. And more every month on the phone bill.
The commercials for this phone show how cool it is to leave your wallet at home and wirelessly pay with your phone.
But the only stores that seem to except wireless payments with this phone are cheap ass fast food like Subway and McDonald’s.
And if I’m flashing an expensive phone around a Subway or McDonald’s, with all my credit cards in the phone wallet, is someone going to stab me and steal my phone?