The thing I never figured out about the Murder, She Wrote television series was how a town like Cabot Cove, Maine could have so many murders.
Despite having less than 4000 people, every week someone in Cabot Cove would get killed.
Oh, sure, some were tourists, but after a few seasons, you’d think the sheriff would notice something. Or demand a raise.
This got me to wondering if Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer, was also a murderer.
I mean, she figured out every murder, and the alleged murderer denied it… maybe she’d set them up?
Murders, she got away with!
Category: My stories
Felt
Have you ever felt a felt-tipped marker?
Truly felt it?
Close your eyes…
Twist off the cap slowly…
Feel the tip on your fingertips.
Feel the wetness.
Your fingers drink it in… drink in the color…
The felt tip against your skin.
Draw… draw on your skin…
Lines. Curves. Angles.
Then… stop!
Put down the marker, pick it up again, twist on the cap so it doesn’t dry out.
At the sink, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing!
Stop!
It is a part of you now.
It’ll have to wear off.
Staring back, your reflection.
Your face. Your forehead, marked:
I’M WITH STUPID.
Delivery
I’m waiting for a delivery.
It’s supposed to be delivered today.
It’s something I don’t want delivered to me while I’m at work, and I couldn’t let them leave it on back patio either, so I took the day off of work.
While waiting, I’ve cleaned the kitchen, bathrooms, vacuumed all the carpets twice, and even scrubbed out a stain in the hallway that I’ve never had the time to get to.
Then, the doorbell rings.
And… it’s…
The exterminator?
Not the delivery I’m expecting, but at least he’s delivering a toxic cloud of death to my insect roommates, yes?
Watching the snow fall
Old Bert looks out the window.
Green. Brown.
The first of his ninety Winters without snow.
He shakes his head. “This won’t do.”
His hand trembles as he reaches for the phone.
There are no buttons. No dial.
He picks it up, brings it up to his ear, and gently whispers “Snow.”
Looking out the window, he watches snowflakes appear, slowly at first, then more… and more…
He smiles. “Thank you,” he whispers, putting the receiver down.
His heart will give out tomorrow morning. They’ll find him in his chair, looking out the window.
Watching the snow fall. And smiling.
Sting
Unlike you,
Bees have the courtesy to
Disembowel themselves
and die
when they sting someone.
The stinger rips out their guts
To pump in venom.
And unlike you,
Bees
Are peaceful,
And only sting when threatened.
You’re more like…
A wasp?
A hornet?
No.
They are hunters.
Predators.
Feeding their young.
Not their sad, pathetic ego.
You’re soulless
Mindless,
Like a…
Jellyfish.
A thousand jellyfish.
A gelatinous,
Rubbery
Cloud
Of slime and pain.
Swimming away
As fast as I can
Stung!
On my ankle!
On my arm!
On my neck!
Swimming harder
Crawling up the sand.
Screaming curses.
Crawling…
Free!
Worn Out
Some people don’t like it when you say their name.
So, they say: “Yeah, that’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
How do you wear out a name by saying it?
I went up to Steve and said “Steve” a hundred times, and it came out the same every time, although I did need to sip my glass of water halfway through the hundred Steves.
When I was done, he was still Steve.
So I did it a thousand times. Ten thousand times.
No difference.
When Steve died, his name was on his headstone.
Cheap stone. It’ll wear out eventually.
Bates
Back in the old days,
Norman ran The Bates Motel on a shoestring,
earning a few bucks here and there from people
who’d stay at the motel.
And for those who stayed
permanently,
I suppose he’d get a bit more,
since those folks didn’t really need all that
money and stuff they had with them.
If Norman had been around these days,
well, he’d have had a problem with social networking,
people tweeting
“A crazy guy in a dress
is stabbing me in the shower!”
and that kind
of hassle.
But at least the Yelp reviews
would actually be: “YELP!”
Forgetful
I’m having trouble remembering simple things.
Things I do all the time.
Like if I turned off the stove before going for a walk.
I’ve done it so much, I can’t remember if I just did it, or I’m remembering doing it thousands of times before.
The same goes for locking the door.
Filling water bowls for the cats.
Even shampooing my hair.
I feel the bottle on the shelf. Is it wet?
Duh. My hands are wet.
I smell my hands, and I’m still not sure.
So, I reach for the shampoo.
Well, it says “Lather, Rinse, Repeat” right?
The Terminal
The dusty old terminal
Finally died
It gave up the ghost
And its circuitboard fried
With a grey puff of smoke
And electrical spark
The green pixels went
And the screen went dark
Decades of data
Burned into to the screen
Are all that is left
On there to be seen
This is the worst time
For the screen to go blank
Because I need to get cash
Out of the bank
I pull out my phone
And tap on the app
To seek out another
Machine on the map
There’s one down the block
(And that is a wrap)
Lemons and Tomatoes
The optimist takes the lemons that life hands him to make lemonade.
But when the artist has tomatoes thrown at him for his art, there are so many more options.
There’s a rich tomato bisque on the back burner there.
Smell that. It’s good, yes?
I made a bottle of ketchup the other day that’s thicker and richer than any store-brand ketchup you can buy.
What else is there on my stove? Oh, that’s a spaghetti sauce.
Here. Taste it. Try it.
A little more salt?
Let me take some out of this wound they tried to rub it in.