Why did I do that?
Because The Devil made me do it.
The Devil doesn’t look like some horned monster with hoofs and a barbed tail.
He’s beautiful. Sounds beautiful.
Like an angel.
Because that’s what he is… was…
That’s why so many people fall for his tricks.
If an angel told you to do something, you wouldn’t ask for ID.
You’d do it.
Besides, even if you ask for his name, he’d just lie.
He’s Gabriel, just left his horn at home.
He’s Michael, didn’t bring his sword.
He smiles, tells you to shove someone into traffic.
And vanishes.
Category: My stories
The Tumbler
I keep my ideas for stories with me like a pouch full of interesting stones I collect during my walks.
When I get home, I load them all into a rock tumbler, add abrasive, and let the drum turn for a few hours.
I stop the drum, and pour it out on the table.
The surviving stones have had the rough edges knocked off of them, and one or two are nice and shiny.
And the rest have been pulverized to grit and dust.
Not all is lost, because they will serve as the abrasive for other ideas I have.
Overcome
With the deepest, darkest skin
And the brightest, whitest robes
Flowing… billowing, like angel’s wings
The choir director raises a hand, his neck muscles tense as a bridge’s cables
And it drops…
“We… Shall… Overcome…”
Not just sung
But hurled
Like a hammer
Every blow pounding my heart, my soul
“We… Shall… Overcome…”
Over…
And over…
I close my eyes,
And I sing it too
A minute later, lost in the power, I am being shaken.
I open my eyes.
I am flat on my back
The choir director is waving a towel over me.
I guess I was overcome.
Monday
“Thank God it’s Friday,” said Joe, sipping his coffee and walking into the office.
God was on the golf course, lining up an easy 3 foot putt on the 8th green in Heaven.
“You’re welcome,” he grumbled.
Millions of others thanked God that it was Friday, and by the time He got to the 18th tee, he had snapped most of his clubs in half and shanked a basket full of balls into the rough clouds.
“You okay, Dad?” asked Jesus.
God pulled off his gloves, threw them into the cart, and pondered a Horrid Monday To Beat All Mondays.
The Daily Special
I can never decide what I want to get at a restaurant.
So, I don’t bother with a menu.
I just let the waiter tell me the specials and I say “Surprise me.”
The most surprised I’ve ever been was when a Turkish chef prepared shish kebab skewers, set them on fire, and launched them with a crossbow at the wall above my head.
It was the best dinner I’d never had, and I thanked the chef, the owner, and the entire staff for that night.
What’s the name of the place?
Doesn’t matter. It burned down years ago.
Shovel Brothers
Fred is wearing the same shirt as I am today.
We are shirt-brothers.
Fred also drives the same car as I do. Same make, model, and color.
Which makes us car-brothers.
Toasters? Well, I don’t see how that’s important, but they’re also the same.
So we’re also toaster-brothers.
I’ve even gotten Fred’s signature down cold, too.
I show it to Fred.
His eyes get wide, and he tries to scream through the gag.
I toss two shovels into the trunk with him (we’re shovel-brothers, too!) and slam the lid.
Shallow grave brothers?
Nah. I’ll let Fred have that to himself.
The Fever
We don’t bother taking Ed’s temperature anymore.
You can tell by the sweat and the redness, he’s burning up.
Still, as the doctor told us to do, we’ve filled his pillow with ice, covered his forehead with damp towels, praying his fever will break.
It’s hard to get him to drink, because he’s constantly whispering nonsense and won’t sip from the glass, so we get him to suck on a damp towel when we can… it’s reflex.
When his temperature’s down again, the doctor will inject me, and it’ll be my turn for the fever.
I hope our vaccine works.
Pockets
No matter how many times I check, I’m always leaving something in my pockets that ends up in the laundry.
I’ve destroyed four pairs of expensive noise-cancelling headphones in the past year that way.
The signatures on my credit cards are all worn off, while any paper money ends up laid out on paper towels and pressed by an unabridged dictionary.
Every load ends up with a frosting of wet shredded kleenex.
Cigarettes… bubblegum… chocolate bars…
My pockets were a goopy, sloppy mess.
But not anymore.
I moved to a nudist colony, and I never have that problem ever again.
Checksum
Back in the day of videotapes, each generation of duplication created worse signal until you ended up with nothing but static.
Nowadays, digital encoding allows perfect duplication of content, and any errors are caught and fixed using mathematical tests called checksums which add up the ones and zeroes, then compares the copies to ensure they’re identical.
The same applies for the doppelgangers of important people we copy for various purposes. Quantum checksum comparisons ensure we’ll get the right information out of a clone we’re torturing.
Oh, did we kill the clone?
Copy another, and try the knotted whip this time.
While drinking a glass of water…
Marley and Tosh grew up best friends on Jamaica, learning ventriloquism from an old comedian who had retired to the island.
Marley had a dummy that resembled Tosh, and Tosh had one similar to Marley.
But each wanted the old man’s dummy, and when he died, things got ugly.
Marley took out a pin and stabbed it into his dummy’s arm, and Tosh cried out in pain.
Tosh responded with his own voodoo attack, stabbing Marley’s twin in the heart.
Tosh laughed, then felt… warm… burning…
Marley’s cigarette had fallen out of his mouth, setting his dummy aflame.
Tosh screamed.