Category: My stories

Gramma died last week.
She was an only child, Mom and Dad have been dead for years, and I’m her only grandson.
I moved away for work a few years ago, and went back and visited, but really couldn’t take time off.
So I had the crematorium pick up her body from the rest home.
They were supposed to mail her ashes to me, but the tracking number is wrong, and the post office doesn’t have any other records of it.
Out there, somewhere, is Gramma.
Probably sitting on a shelf with others lost in transit.
Should have used Fedex.

Travis Scott has a history of yelling for the audience to rush the stage.
“There are more of you than guards,” he’s said.
What utter dumbasses take a job to guard his shows?
The guy you’re supposed to protect, screaming for the audience to attack you.
What an ungrateful son of a bitch.
I tried to listen to his… “music” is what he calls it?
Three “songs” in, and I had to hit stop.
I want to go to the hospital rooms of the injured… the funerals of the dead.
And say “You were willing to die for this shit?”

I don’t hang with the cool kids.
I’m rather behind on the times, so I don’t know where the cool kids hang.
Do they still hang at the roller rink?
Do they still hang at the drive in?
Do they still hang at the malt shop?
That’s kinda dated, I admit.
That’s Fifties thinking.
Do they still hang at the arcade?
Do they still hang at the mall.
Maybe. Not sure. This isn’t the Eighties, man.
Where do the cool kids hang now?
If they don’t wash their hands, get vaccinated, and mask up, they’ll all hang at the ICU.

My grandfather loaded up the boat with our fishing gear, and we went out on the lake.
“The lights in the sky are real,” he said.
“They’re stars,” I said. “They’re planes. They’re helicopters.”
“No,” he said. “The other ones.”
And he’d offer his flask, and I’d just drink my coffee.
And we never caught any fish.
Years later, I took the boat out on the lake.
I had his flask with me, and drank a toast to him.
Up in the sky, I saw the lights.
They weren’t stars. Or planes. Or helicopters.
And they got brighter. And brighter.

The bloody body of the dictator was shown on television.
“Liberation!” said the headlines. “Everyone rejoice!”
People wanting to see the body went to the palace and joined a queue, and then were ushered into waiting rooms.
After a few minutes, they walked into a viewing room, where they saw a bloody corpse.
Some spat in his face. Others dropped their pants and pissed on him.
But there were a few than bowed.
They were taken off to another room.
Where they met the very-much-alive dictator.
He thanked them, handed them guns, and sent them after his less respectful visitors.

Got bad dreams?
Hire a dream weaver.
Dream weavers come to your house with a case of tricks.
Candles, chimes, and aromas in jars.
Pills of strange colors and various sizes.
“No, that’s not a pill,” says the dream weaver.
Meticulously curated music playlists to lull you to sleep.
Some will massage you, touch you all over, rub you with oils and other substances.
And then… you fall asleep… and you’re awake again.
The bad dreams are gone. But you didn’t dream at all.
Doesn’t matter. That wasn’t the deal.
Oh, and cash, please. And nothing bigger than a twenty.

A crowd gathered in the town square.
Some had torches.
Others had pitchforks.
Bob had a pitchfork on fire.
The others mocked Bob.
“They ran out of torches, and I really wanted a torch,” Bob told his wife after the gathering.
“Someone with a torch could have traded with you,” his wife said. “Besides, we have torches in the closet.”
“You said those were the good torches for company,” said Bob.
Bob and his wife had soup for dinner.
Then went to bed.
Bob dreamed of a gathering in the town square.
He had a torch.
And he was happy.

Smithy was a fireball pitcher.
After ten seasons without a World Series ring, the eleventh was the same futility.
He demanded a trade to another team hot in the race for one.
Come November, he flashed that ring around his new city like there’s no tomorrow.
So much so, he blew out his elbow.
When it was time for the Hall of Fame, he wanted his plaque to show the new team’s logo.
He only wore it for three months.
The old team convinced him otherwise, with videotape of him and some of his young fans in the locker room.

After escaping the whale’s belly, Pinocchio and Gepetto fell off of their raft and washed ashore on a small island.
There were plenty of trees and vines to lash together into a raft, but they had no tools.
Instead, Gepetto used vines to tie down Pinocchio.
Then he demanded that Pinocchio tell lies, and Gepetto used a pair of rocks to snap off the end of his nose, over and over again.
The pain was excruciating, and it drove the puppet boy mad.
When he had enough wood, Gepetto lashed together a raft.
But Pinocchio stabbed him with a stake.

Having Asperger’s and parents who were in denial about it will mess you up.
They were proud of my perfect brother, but ashamed of me.
My father would tell people that I was from his wife’s first marriage, so don’t look at him.
My mother would tell people that I was from her husband’s first marriage, so don’t look at her.
I was the sick joke they shared.
So when my father died and my dementia-ridden mother was left destitute, the retirement home called.
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m from her husband’s first marriage.”
And I hung up.