Our friends own a trailer park.
They feed a lot of stray cats. And every so often, someone abandons a cat or two at their place.
We lost Bruwyn last month. He’d been hit by a car.
Myst is all alone now.
She’s never been alone before.
Before, she had Bruwyn, Nardo, and her birth family.
She needs a furry little friend.
We were going to pick up a kitten from a shelter, but someone dumped a kitten in the trash bin out at the trailer park.
We call her Tin Roof Swirl.
Myst calls her hisssssssssssssss.
It’ll take time.
Category: My stories
The Leader
Sufficiently powerful magic swords can overwhelm their owners and take control of their bodies.
So when the fighter we’d hired with a king’s ransom in the tavern drew the sword we’d lent him and growled “This one will do” in Razorwind’s cold steel voice, we knew we had our party leader back.
“This time, can you save a healing spell for my handler?” the sword asked our cleric. “The money you keep paying and taking back from them can buy a potion or two.”
The cleric whispered “Certainly, sir.” and Razorwind pulled back from his neck.
And we marched on.
Oh Mirror, Mirror
Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the fairest one if all
And how much does she charge per night?
Mirror mirror laying flat on the table
One line for me
One line for her
Unless she’s not into cocaine
Then I’ll do both
Mirror mirror on the ceiling
Not bad for fifty-seven
If I can’t see myself up there
Then there’s always the videotape
Mirror mirror on the side of the cab
She gives me her card, smiles, and is gone
I toss it in the trash
Mirror mirror in the bathroom
Move aside, I need my pills
Now
If you are what you eat, then you aren’t what you shit
When I was young, I was always amazed at how some things I ate passed right through me.
Yellow bits of corn.
Green beans.
Bits of carrot and red bell pepper.
Disgusting, I know.
But every so often, when I wake up with blood on my lips, I keep lookout for the tell-tale glint of a gold ring.
I scoop it out with a toilet-brush and drop it into a glass of bleach.
I’ve found dozens of rings that way.
As for the finger bones, I flush those with the rest of the waste, and head for the bus station.
Silent Symphony
The Symphony is performing “Concerto For Dogs” tonight.
It is entirely out of the human audio spectrum.
Violins, trombones, and other instruments tuned like dog whistles.
Nobody knows what the composer’s name is.
He was born as Almo Burt, but he had it changed a few years back to something outside of the audio spectrum, too.
Typical weirdo artist, right?
He steps through the curtain, bows, and announces: “Now put on your blindfolds. The performance is about to begin.”
The audience agrees, the lights are turned off, and the Symphony sneaks out for a drink at the pub next door.
Marconi
With each heart attack, Guglielmo Marconi grew more desperate to prove that soundwaves lasted forever, and that with a sufficiently-amplified shout, his words could be impressed upon the universe so they’d echo for all eternity.
For years, he’d been listening to the vacuum of space, trying to find the reverberations of souls past, but his time was running out, so he went forward with his plans to make his mark.
He was last seen alive, running through the streets of Rome, shouting “I AM MARCONI!” at the top of his lungs.
Then, mid-shout, he clutched his chest, collapsed, and died.
Miss The Boat
When the war came, Mother yelled “RUN!” and we ran to the docks.
The boat was crowded and leaky, and the captain said we needed to shed weight or we’d sink.
A dozen mothers and fathers jumped overboard and sacrificed themselves to save us.
Or so they thought.
The captain waited until dark before tossing the rest of the adults overboard and turning the boat around.
“I’ll sell the rest of you to the factories.”
Except me. I hid under some ropes and waited, and when he set out again, I slit his throat.
Now what? I ask the sky.
Amiri Baraka
Amiri Baraka is dead.
Good riddance, I say.
But that’s not enough.
I don’t just want to piss on his grave.
I want to dig up his coffin,
Pry open his mouth,
And piss into his throat.
And I don’t just want to dance on his grave.
I want to start a kickstarter campaign,
To hire the Rockettes
And dress them up like rabbis
Beautiful, long-legged rabbis
And they’ll dance a whole chorus line on his grave.
Amiri Baraka was buried in New Jersey.
Land of chemical plants and Superfund sites.
A fitting place: a toxic creature in poisoned earth.
Keep It Safe
Lisa needed for me to watch over something valuable for a few months.
So, I agreed, and she handed me a metal box safe. It was painted up really nice.
“Keep it safe,” she said, and she walked out the door.
A few weeks later, she called in a panic. “Is it safe? Is it still okay?”
I said “I don’t know” but we got disconnected.
I took it to the garage and opened it up with a drill-press.
Empty.
I called her back and said so.
“YOU CRACKED IT OPEN? YOU BROKE THAT ANTIQUE LOCK? IT WAS PRICELESS!”
Shit.
The Old Teacher
My grandfather taught me how to play Scrabble.
Somewhere on the shelf with the golf and pool trophies was his masters points notebook.
But all those years ago, he’d never sit at the dining table to play.
Instead, he’d circle the table, looking over shoulders, shaking his head when my mother or grandmother would look for help, and he’d rearrange the tiles.
“Where does that go?” they’d say.
He’d point at the board.
“Oh!” and they’d smile and place the tiles.
These days, I imagine him screaming more than frowning.
I probably shouldn’t play Scrabble on my phone while driving.