Category: My stories

Everything I write is real.
All I have to do is see the real world.
The hard part is, people keep trying to build a world in front of it.
Block out the truth. Block out beauty.
And replace it with the safe, the fear, and the simple.
I try to tear all that down, or peek through the cracks and the gaps.
Look around corners, or under rugs.
Turn around suddenly, in case it’s hiding behind my back.
And there it is. The real.
I smile and reach for a pen… a pencil… a writing pad.
And capture it.

You’re here to rescue me?
No way. I was born here. And I’ll die here.
Come Hell or high water, I’m staying.
Which is worse? Hell or high water?
Hell is forever.
At least high water drains.
Now that I think of it, if there were high water, I’d probably leave.
No sense in drowning and ending up in Hell, right?
Besides, if it’s flooding here, then I’d assume that it’s flooding even worse in Hell.
So, it’s not really Hell or high water.
It’s Hell and high water.
Got any dry matches in that boat?
I need a smoke.

In the age of online travel websites like orbitz and Priceline, you’d think that there’d be no room for budget travel agencies anymore.
But with my new RioTourism agency, cater to the cheapest of the cheap.
You get a bus ticket, bag of rocks to throw, and a sign that protests whatever grudge you’ve got that keeps you from admitting that you are responsible for the failure of a life you have.
For a few bucks more, you get matches and a can of gasoline.
Where do we profit?
From ratting you out to the cops when the riots begin.

I put on my pants one leg at a time, just like Batman.
I put up my socks, shoes, and shirt, just like Batman.
We wear the same gloves, the same mask, and the same cowl.
But he defends Gotham, using his money for his gadgets and weapons, while I patrol the streets of Chillicothe, Ohio with just my wits and my two fists.
There aren’t many super-villains here in Chillicothe. And the few that are here, well, they’re not so super.
Batman keeps returning his prey to Arkham.
I dump mine in the river. And they never come back.

Tinny likes to nest in warm places.
She curls up in a fur blanket, my robe on the bathroom counter. Anywhere soft and warm.
I woke up this morning to see her nesting in my pants.
I tickled her under her chin, she yawned wide open, and went back to sleep.
After I finished my shower, Myst was staring at Tinny, poking a paw at her.
Tinny cringed away from the paw.
Myst lashed out, and drove Tinny away.
When I got home after work, Myst was nesting in my pants.
Tinny was hiding somewhere. Probably in a warm spot.

I love you.
But I’ll never say it.
Isn’t it enough to love someone?
Do you have to say it?
Words are so empty.
How will they know you love them?
It’s more important to do, than to say.
So, what do you do?
What good is a card? Or a gift? Or flowers?
Give them something they want? Or something they need?
There’s a difference between want and need.
As there’s a difference between doing and saying.
I pick out a card.
A small stuffed bear with a heart.
And flowers. So many flowers.
So many flowers. So many.

Neighbors got an eviction notice.
Dog barking. Kid playing recorder. Patio overgrown.
Number on the gate half fallen off.
Another neighbor’s cat visits our patio.
Her cat loves our flowers.
She lives on the second floor.
Lets her cat use the window to come down and visit.
Our cats are a bit wary, but I don’t mind.
Maybe she can move down to the place next door.
Plant some flowers.
Keep things nice and quiet.
I hear the dogs barking.
Then whining.
And silence.
I hope they move put soon.
I turn up my headphones, and enjoy some mellow jazz.

Woke up, and read about a bloodbath.
Arab Muslims slaughtering rabbis.
Abbas will “denounce” it,
and then to scream about Jews invading Al-Aqsa mosque.
When none actually are.
The press will swallow his shit whole.
The diplomats will swallow his shit whole.
And beg for more.
This is why I’ve given up on drought.
And global warming.
And all that “end of the world” shit.
I say, bring on the end of the world.
Because if people believe that motherfucker’s lies,
This civilization doesn’t deserve to spread among the stars.
Better to snuff it out before the ignorant evil spreads.

Obama was accused of ignoring the Constitution, spitting on the Constitution, and wiping his ass with the Constitution.
I’d think it would be more fun to fly the Constitution like a kite. Maybe the Bill of Rights could be used as a tail.
Or fold it origami-style into a big bird, or one of those hopping frogs.
There’s all kinds of fun things to do with it, really.
But every now and then, someone reads it. And understands it.
And loves it.
Maybe a bit too much. Singing its praises and worshiping it.
Which is just as bad, I think.

I don’t understand the phrase “Clean as a whistle.”
People put their mouths on the things, and they’re full of spit.
The corks in the whistles end up with all kinds of mold and bacteria in them.
Just awful.
Unless it’s a new whistle, I won’t put my mouth on one.
Even if you bleach the damn thing. Twice
It’s like toothbrushes. Or re-using someone’s dental floss.
Or unwashed underwear.
It’s just something you don’t do.
Throw that shit out and get a new one.
That’s what disposable means.
As long as you’ve got a new clean one, that is.