Category: My stories

The Flugelheimer Circus Train took the curve too fast and went off the rails outside of Morgantown.
Right out by the ravine, half the cars rolling down the hill into the rocks.
The others like scattered crushed boxes, spilling out broken animals and people.
The few survivors, limping and crawling and carrying each other to the lights of Morgantown.
Ambulances and nurses rushing out, the Boy Scout Troop giving first aid, no comfort to the mangled.
And where was Flugelheimer?
Not in his private car.
He was in Rio with the formerly-bearded lady, living it up with the insurance payout.

I work with a charity that builds schools in poor neighborhoods.
Neighborhoods with run-down schools, not enough skilled teachers, old textbooks, and few after-school activities to keep kids out of gangs.
We get a lot of grant money and celebrity support.
And we use it to build the schools.
The best schools. Beautifully and perfectly designed schools.
Problem is, when we’re done building the schools, there’s no money left.
Maybe enough for a ribbon for a politician to cut.
And run, leaving behind an empty school with no teachers, no textbooks, no afterschool activities.
Except for vandalizing the empty shell.

Lucy was an old Series Seven.
She did good work at the droid shop, and a vintage bot demonstrated to customers a bit of class, as opposed to the new Series Tens in the warehouse.
But she had a hard time holding a charge, and those Series Sevens had an integrated hardwired battery.
A swappable battery was a risky retrofit. Which Lucy declined.
She spent all of her time tethered to a power cord, never going more than five meters from the reception desk.
Smiling, welcoming people, waving people past, and arranging repairs for the broken Series Tens being returned.

There were ten of us Smith kids, and when the youngest Bobby went off to the Army, Mother had herself a bad case of Empty Nest.
At first, she’d bake cookies for all the neighborhood kids, but between me and my surviving brothers and sisters, Momma had a bad habit of dropping things in mixing bowls without looking first, and thank God Daddy said he’d do all the cooking.
So, she put out a bunch of birdfeeders and birdhouses, and the homestead was covered with birds.
And bird shit.
Even more reason not to take any of her cookies, kids.

Ah, Sweeps Month!
Three times a year, the Nielsen Company would do detailed measuring of audiences.
This would help them thumb the scales when setting rates with advertisers.
To boost their ratings, the networks would shelf their usual crap and roll huge attention-grabbing stunts.
Big stars on talk shows.
Major plot twists on the dramas and comedies.
Sweepstakes and viewer contests.
And the usual excuses to pixelate tits and ass on local newscasts.
Nowadays, most viewers use streaming or cable.
Everything is measured to the microsecond.
No more stunts. No more plot twists.
Just the endless river of mindless crap.

There are jesters everywhere.
Every office, every school.
And on every train and bus.
“Entertain us!” people shout at the jesters.
And they do.
Telling jokes, performing pratfalls.
Juggling things, and simple slight-of-hand close magic tricks.
They make everyone happy.
Much happier than when there were clowns everywhere.
People like the jesters more than the clowns.
Clowns sometimes get sad, and they cry.
Jesters do not get sad. They are always happy.
Constantly in motion, going from person to person, cheering them up.
Cheering all up who watch them.
When a jester grows tired, another appears, and we are all happy.

It’s final exam season.
We bring our children to The Tower.
The doors open, they walk inside, and the doors close.
An hour later, the doors open again.
One by one, the children who passed the exam come out.
Some walk. Some run. Some crawl.
Some are carried out.
Maybe they’ll wake up. Maybe they won’t.
As for the kids who don’t pass, they’re taken to the top of the tower.
And they’re pushed off the edge.
Some parents stand back and watch. And pray.
Others try to catch their children.
And others just stand underneath, and accept their fate.

Jacob carried his guitar from village to village, and the villagers gave him money.
At first, he’d play for free, and they would dance and sing.
And if they wanted him to play more, they’d have to pay him to stay.
Jacob was good, but over time, his guitar wore down, and so did Jacob.
Villages warned him not to come.
Posting signs by the road.
GO AWAY JACOB.
He came anyway, and he would play, and the villagers paid him to go away.
Now he just telegraphs his tour plans, and they wire him money to stay at home.

It’s really hard keeping animals alive, said the zookeeper.
Especially when there’s so many different kinds of animals.
Some eat plants. Some eat meat. Some eat bugs.
It’s a real bitch keeping it all straight.
And shoveling up all the poop? It’s disgusting!
So, I replaced all the animals with stuffed animals.
With a few Raspberry Pis and articulators, their tongues can flick out, or they can blink, but seriously, most animals you see at the zoo are asleep in the corner of their cage.
But it’s really hard keeping articulators working, so we’ll just prop up some cardboard cutouts.

The raven god flies over our village every spring to bless the planting season.
And he comes back every fall to bless the harvest.
All the tribes come for the festivals.
We all lay down our weapons and are one.
We sacrifice seed and corn to the raven god.
The dancing. The bonfires.
It’s a powerful time for all.
We drink the sacred drink, and we dance.
The fires become ash.
The night becomes dawn.
We all say our goodbyes.
Our brothers pick up their weapons, mount their horses, and return to their villages.
Until the next festival time comes.