I write most of my stories on my smartphone, tapping them out with an app called Draftpad.
It’s a simple notepad program that puts a wordcount on the top of the screen.
This is very handy for writing stories exactly 100 words long. The standard notes app doesn’t do wordcounts.
Even though it can back itself up to the iCloud, it also lets you email a story to yourself. And I can send it to WordPress and Google Plus for publishing.
What it doesn’t do is make my phone waterproof.
That’s the last time I write stories in the tub.
Category: My stories
Cinderell-huh?
If Cinderella’s glass slipper fit, why did it fall off?
And when it fell off, why didn’t it turn back into her ragged ordinary slipper when the clock struck midnight?
The horses turned back into mice.
The carriage turned back into a pumpkin.
Her ball gown turned back into the clothes she was wearing the day before.
So why not that slipper?
It’s because of the Fairy Godmother.
Why she didn’t just blast the wicked stepmother and the two sisters with her magic wand and make the prince her undying love slave, well, that’s because she was a manipulative bitch.
The Cans
We started with four cats, and they’d eat whatever canned food we put out.
When there was just one of those four left, he had the can all to himself.
But then we found a kitten… and got another kitten, and they’d all eat their canned supper together.
When the last of the original four cats died, the two grown kittens got picky about canned food.
I’ve tried to chart what they like… sliced… flaked… chunks… chicken… liver… beef… fish…
Sometimes, they ate it. Sometimes, they stuck to dry food.
I leave it out on the patio for the strays.
Tabs
Steve collected the tabs from soda cans.
He said it was for a school project for his daughter.
Anyway, everybody in the department got in the habit of giving their tabs to him.
Me, I sat at the desk behind him, so I’d throw my tabs over the cubicle wall in his direction.
Steve left for a new job a few weeks ago, but I’m still in the habit of throwing my soda can tabs at his desk.
Ali took over Steve’s desk this morning.
“What the fuck?” he shouts.
“Sorry,” I said, sipping my Coke Zero. “Force of habit.”
Bloodmobile
The bloodmobile came by our office to collect blood.
“We’re running lower than normal this month,” said a volunteer.
Instead of laying down on the cots, we formed a mob and marched to the local blood bank.
“Oh crap!” shouted the staff there. “It’s a blood bank run!”
They barred the doors, took to the roof, and tried to drive us off by pelting us with bottles of orange juice and cookies.
But we’d come armed with trash can lids, and deflected the projectiles.
VROOM!
Oh no! I’d forgotten about the bloodmobile!
Bodies flew as it careened through our ranks.
Oh You Fools
Alexander Pope said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, but I can’t come up with a single place that an angel would fear to tread.
I’ve lived in some really bad places, and I’ve seen plenty of fools rushing around them.
But angels are supernatural, powerful beings. They serve God as his messengers and soldiers.
There’s nothing here that an angel couldn’t handle.
Why they don’t, well, that’s one of those Free Will arguments I won’t get into.
Or perhaps it’s all the power lines. They don’t want to get their big white wings tangled in them.
Paint It
Long ago, comedian Steven Wright said “It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to paint it.” in his act.
It turns out he grabbed it from a comedian named Chic Murray
Whatever the source, I’m still confused: are they talking about painting the world with brushes and cans of paint? Because that could get expensive, especially if you need to buy primer, too.
Or perhaps paint it as in painting it on a canvas? Cheaper, certainly, but canvas and oils aren’t free.
This is what digital photography was invented to do.
Thank goodness for Google Maps and Street View.
Camp 60
Everything that can go wrong with a moon shelter has gone wrong with Camp 60.
Air leaks.
Radiation shielding.
Communications issues.
You name it, Camp 60 has it, and no matter how much we go over that place with a fine-toothed comb, it isn’t long before we get a distress signal from the radio guy… or lose signal entirely.
It doesn’t make sense.
We used the same tools, same blueprints, same construction materials, and it’s got the same geology as the other camps.
So, we made it our jail.
Play nice, recruits, or you’ll spend a night in Camp 60.
Sarcasm
We were watching the Super Bowl, and a television commercial for a bank came on.
I read the fine print:
SUBSTANTIAL PENALTY FOR EARLY WITHDRAWAL.
I made a joke: “What do they do, cut your head off?”
Everybody in the room went silent.
And the red alarm dot on the television began to flash.
“Oh, shit… the sarcasm detector,” said the host. “They heard him.”
“They? Who?” I asked.
The screen went black, and outside… the sound of an approaching helicopter.
Oh great. The Sarcasm Police. Just what I need.
The red dot on top of the television flashed brighter.
Typo
After years of failed negotiations, the Iranians suddenly agreed to comprehensive inspections in exchange for the lifting of international sanctions on their battered economy.
Diplomats patted themselves on the back and praised each other… until the press got a hold of the documents.
“This says IKEA, not IAEA!” shouted the Secretary General Of The United Nations. “Who the fuck screwed this one up?”
Everybody stared at the Swedish representative.
“Hey, those IKEA guys are smart,” he said. “Just look what they can do with some wood and Allen wrenches.”
“They can make coffins,” said the Israeli representative, dialing Tel Aviv.