Category: My stories

The Morton Twins were always pretending to be the other.
It started off innocently, with simple cases of mistaken identity, but things got ugly fast.
Pete would rob houses and hide the loot in Paul’s room.
And the things he did while babysitting the neighbor kids are too horrible to mention.
Paul visited his brother in jail, right up to the execution.
When Pete got to Hell, he’d tell others that he was Paul, and he bragged about the things he did.
When Paul died and got to Heaven, he completely forgot about Pete.
“Mercy.”
The angels smiled and winked.

The old woman in 6G pays the mailman to slip her mail into other people’s mailboxes.
Her family is long gone. She doesn’t get any visitors.
Neighbors used to bring up her mail, she’d offer them tea, and they’d sit with her a while.
And suffer her long and boring and sad stories.
Now they just slip her mail under her door. Or throw it out.
She called the super about a gas leak.
“I’m not falling fir it,” he mumbled. “She’ll talk my goddamned ear off.”
After an hour, he smelled smoke.
The fire department couldn’t save the building.

While Heather lay unconscious in her hospital bed, the alumni boosters prepared a deal for her.
Hospital bills paid. A full scholarship.
Whatever she wanted.
Just tell the police that it was a mistake. Or an accident.
Daunte Washington, star quarterback and Heisman candidate, her boyfriend, never laid a hand on her.
There were rumors, but nobody could prove a thing.
Nobody would talk. Booster cash buys silence.
The police closed the case.
Daunte won the Heisman, got a huge contract and lots of endorsements.
Heather never woke up.
He paid for her funeral, and they buried the ugly truth.

Wandering Jack wandered from town to town with a stone and a bullshit story about how the stone was part of a recipe for the greatest soup in history.
He kept the scam going for years, convincing townsfolk to gather together and bring the actual ingredients for the soup.
Until Portsbend.
Everybody in Portsbend showed up with their own stones.
“No,” said Jack. “We need potatoes and corn and lettuce and beef bones and…”
“Well, why don’t you go get them yourself?” the townspeople said.
“That’s not how it works!” Jack shouted.
Jack fell screaming under a hail of stones.

Nobody goes to the zoo anymore.
Memberships are down. Tickets are down.
The gift shop, concession stands, and even the choo choo train are down.
Hiring freezes, layoffs.
Selling off the animals that are expensive to maintain.
And lots of publicity stunts.
The latest had the director of the zoo marrying two last gorillas together.
That one didn’t go too well.
The gorillas never quite got used to being around humans.
And on top of that, they were two male gorillas, and the local churches protested.
Lots of support on Facebook from LGBT groups, but that doesn’t pay the bills.

The Centerville Diner sits quietly along Center Street in the center of Centerville.
Centerville is in the middle of Center county, which is in the center of the state.
A state which is in the center of the country.
Anything beyond that point is purely speculation and difficult to argue.
Because no country is the center of the world, and earth is not at the center of the solar system, a Copernicus proved long ago.
The Diner is at the center of the community, though, as the owner unlocks the front door, turns on lights, and starts up the grills.

A forest in winter.
An early frost.
A fresh blanket of snow.
A gentle breeze.
An iron chain, two iron chains.
A leg, a foot, an arm.
A beautiful girl, in rags.
A baby in her arms.
A tracking dog
A sheriff.
A radio in his hand.
A pickup truck on an icy road.
A small Kentucky farm.
An old red barn.
An iron cage.
A bucket. A plate.
A bent spoon.
An open lock
A clenched fist.
An angry farmer.
An altar.
A blood sacrifice for Spring.
A search.
Another girl.
A dark prayer.
An angry god listens.

Stacy’s cat vanished the other day.
The neighbor kid Billy brought over some teriyaki jerky as a condolence gift.
It was delicious.
“I have to confess,” said Billy. “I made it out of your cat.”
Stacy ate the whole bag anyway. “Do you have any more?” she asked.
They set out traps and caught a few strays.
LOST CAT posters appeared on every lamp post.
Stacy volunteered at the local shelter.
She smuggled out cats in her backpack.
The shelter owner didn’t care.
“It’s either that or drown them in the lake,” he said.
He suggested barbecue flavor. And sweet-and-sour.

In the Northern Hemisphere, most birds fly South for the Winter.
Just as in the Southern Hemisphere, most birds fly North for their Winter.
Except for birds that can’t fly, like Kiwi or Ostriches or Penguins, of course.
I’m not sure what they do.
Do they dig burrows and hide in them?
Do they check into motels?
Or do they hop on trains?
Because I’m sure that they aren’t allowed on buses or planes.
Maybe cargo ships. There’s a lot of cargo ships out there.
But they tend to go from China to America.
And oil tankers just carry oil.

Most people use trackpads or wireless laser-mice these days, but I insist on using an old-fashioned mouse with a ball in it.
Of course, the ball accumulates grime, and I have to clean it out.
Not just so that I can control the mouse, but also prevent the grime from coalescing and achieving intelligence.
The pulsating glob managed to point and click its way into my word processor, and it worked up some kind of manifesto.
I pulled out the ball and scraped out the grime.
No need for a wireless laser-mouse yet. This time, I’ll use some antibacterial wipes.