Category: My stories

The wigmaker placed the third of the wigs on Mozart’s head and held up a mirror.
“Which of the three do you like best?” asked the wigmaker.
Mozart looked in the mirror. “I love them all!” he exclaimed. “If only I had three heads!”
The head-maker went into his back room, searched through his inventory, and brought out two heads.
He held them up for Mozart. “Will these do?” he asked.
Mozart thanked the wigmaker and head-maker, and left with his purchases.
The third head ran up a huge gambling debt. It panwed the other two to pay it off.

Joe’s always saying “We agree” in response to things.
But Joe’s not speaking on behalf of others.
Well, others that exist.
Joe’s not using the “Royal” we, per se.
Instead, he’s referring to the group that consists of himself and the voices in his head.
He thinks there’s an actual group, but there isn’t.
Who are the voices in his head?
Oddly enough, they consist of several kings of England.
They’re a rather murderous lot, and tell him to kill and behead the people who disagree with him.
I mean them. All of them.
(I hope he doesn’t murder me.)

I am also a professional writer, and my work has been published many times in multiple languages.
What books have I written? None. I don’t write books.
I write technical documentation for a software company.
And many of customers use Google’s translation software to read it in their native language.
I realize that my saying that I am a writer is as much a lie as the guy who paints the lines on the street being a painter, who’s work is seen by thousands… perhaps millions.
But I never call myself an artist.
Because unlike most artists,
I get paid.

Yesterday was windy.
Now, it is not.
Did the wind die down?
Or is it blowing elsewhere?
When Daisy left town, she said we was letting the wind fill her sails and take her with it.
“I go where the wind blows,” she said, lifting her skirts, and floating with the breeze.
Nobody saw her again for thirty years.
Until the day when the tornado hit.
Daisy’s broken and bloody corpse was found on the steps of the high school.
To this day, parents fit their children with concrete blocks and heavy chains.
And feed them until they are fat.

Jenny’s leg was horribly maimed by the bomb blast at the Boston Marathon.
She vowed that she’d run it again, and for a year, doctors tried to save her leg.
But they couldn’t.
Jenny wrote a break-up letter to her leg, and it was finally amputated.
While Jenny was getting fitted with a prosthetic leg, the amputated leg went on a dating site to find someone else.
There were a few responses, a few dates. But the leg used an old photo on the profile, and you can guess how things went.
It eventually gave up, leaping from a bridge.

Legend has it that Charlie Chaplin came in third in a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest.
What made it even worse is that second place went to the chair he was sitting on.
But the most tragic fact of that night is that Charlie was the only contestant.
All of the other contestants realized that they were competing with The Charlie Chaplin, and they resigned out of respect.
The sponsor of the contest was appalled at Chaplin. To compete in contests to see who looks most like himself?
First place went to the sponsor’s fist, which hit Charlie in the nose.

Ted wasn’t the smartest, but he studied hard to overcome it.
He worked a job at night and a job on the weekend to save up for college.
So, when he got the acceptance letter, along with a generous scholarship, it was everything he’d hoped and dreamed of.
Except that it wasn’t for him.
There was a mistake in Admissions.
The letter was meant for a black kid.
Who didn’t study hard. Or work two jobs.
The Admissions office broke the news to Ted in a letter a week later.
Ted bought a sniper rifle, and went to college anyway.

Artists make art.
Michael Heizer makes massive engineering problems for other people to solve and pay for. He also creates massive logistical problems for those who need to arrange permits to transport his “art” to the fools willing to host it.
But not maintain it. An installation in Lansing had to be torn down because of structural and design flaws which posed a danger to onlookers.
These stone, steel, concrete, and dirt monuments to his ego are the illusion of permanence. Just a place for his rich patrons to party, then scurry back to their mansion fortresses behind massive walls.

At first, black was black, and it went with everything.
Then they said that blue was the new black.
After that, yellow became the new black.
And blue became the old blue again.
At some point, every color has been the new black.
Except for orange. Until that television show appeared.
Then, orange was the new black.
That’s when blue became the new yellow, pink became the new red, and white became the new purple.
When ultra-violet became the new white, billions of people died from radiation poisoning.
And black was the old black again.
And it went with everything.