Stacy was an artist.
I thought she was a lunatic.
Maybe she was both.
She’d strip naked, cover her body in paint, and roll around on a gigantic canvas.
Blue. Red. Yellow. Green.
Color by color, she’d add to her artwork.
I mean, yeah, she was pretty, and the medium was kinda interesting, but it got repetitive.
Nobody told me that she always wanted to hug someone when she finished painting.
So, I was wearing a tux that night, so when she hugged me, I got pissed.
I slapped her, she slipped on the paint, and broke her neck.
Shit.
Category: My stories
Always a Jammer, Never a Blocker
Most women think of their wedding dress as the dress they’ll be married in.
Others think of it as the dress they’ll be buried in.
But Tracy’s thinking “How will this perform on the track?”
She joined the Bridezillas team as a jammer, fast and light, with a minimum of lace to reduce wind resistance and material for opponents to grab. But after years of working out and hitting the bars after matches, she switched to blocker, and she wanted more flashy and style.
She checked a sleeve. Shiny… glittering…
Pretty as a picture.
Plus, rhinestones always leave a mark.
The Dragon’s Tail
Isaac sat beneath an apple tree and watched a mob of farmers charge up the hill, pitchforks waving, heading to the dragon’s cave.
He closed his eyes and waited for the roar to come.
RRRRROOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!
A pack of screaming singed farmers carrying scorched pitchforks ran down the hill, half-heartedly pursued by a massive scaly green lizard with wings.
Until it stopped, walked up to Isaac, and grumbled “What’s up with those clowns?”
Isaac shrugged. “I can calculate the motions of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of men.”
The dragon sighed, grumbled and walked away, his tail jostling the tree.
When The Ghost Hits The Fan
If you run a common desk fan long enough, grimy gunk will accumulate on the blades.
Sure, a lot of it is dust, but the rest of it turns out to be chopped bits of ghost.
What? You thought that ghosts were person-shaped specters or flapping empty-eyed sheets floating in the air?
Well, I’m not sure about that. These bits and fragments are rather small, but I’ve collected up enough to take a guess.
What is it a ghost of? A person?
Actually, based on what I’ve got so far, I’d say it was a ghost of a dust bunny.
Off The Menu
I remember sitting around a table with a few of my friends who were also restaurant owners, cracking jokes about each other’s places.
“Vinnie’s place is so old, he just gave the monks he uses to copy the menus a five cent raise.”
“Benny’s so cheap, he won’t pay to buy new stone tablets to chisel new menus on… he makes them hammer in the changes on the back.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I hear Artie over there’s such a tightwad, he won’t pay to paint the cave he’s in.”
I just laughed, and wondered when my chef would discover fire.
Potluck
It’s the holidays, but when you’re “essential staff” where I work, you don’t get those off.
Instead, you’re required to burn a paid day off or come in, which sucks, even when you get double pittance (oops, I mean double pay) for doing so.
So, we have potluck lunches, and everybody’s supposed to bring in a dish.
Nobody signed up, though, so the night before, management announced that participation was now mandatory.
Whatever, grumbled the team.
The next day, the break room was stacked high with the twenty last-minute tubs of potato salad they’d bought.
Who wants to order pizza?
The Well Of Apology
Every April, the thieves in the town jail are chained together and dragged to The Well Of Apology.
One by one, the thieves are handed a knife, and they are forced to slash their palms and drip blood into the well.
Then, they are unchained, and released.
Any thief who is caught red-handed is beheaded at the well, their head falling into its depths.
Some say that when you cut your palms over the well, the dead whisper up to their friends.
Maybe it’s just the wind, the rattle of the chain.
Have you noticed, the mayor always wears gloves?
Ignorance Is Wedded Bliss
Igor found her body in a chair, poison in one hand and a note in the other.
“Victor
I remember now.
I know what kind of monster you are.
Please, no more experiments. Burn my corpse.”
Instead, Victor found her diary, and burned the note with it.
Flushing the poison was difficult, but the rejuvenation formula not only replaced the contaminated blood, but neutralized all toxins.
They laid her out on the table and hooked up the wires.
Once again, the electricity would cause temporary amnesia.
Two months? Three?
“Isn’t love grand?” said Igor.
Victor nodded, and threw the switch.
What’s That Noise?
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
I have no idea.
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
It sounds like a vacuum.
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
Are you vacuuming?
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
It sounds more like an upright than one of those… well… the not-uprights. Whatever they’re called.
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
Is something stuck in the agitator brush? A sock? Or… you didn’t run over the cat, did you?
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
The bag’s full, isn’t it? It uses bags, right? Or is it one of those wind-tunnel vacuums without bags?
WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
They say science abhors a vacuum, but poetry abhors them worse.
TURN IT OFF!
Liquid courage
The old gunslinger pulled out a flask, took a swig, and then offered it to me.
“Shot of liquid courage?” he coughed.
“No thanks, I don’t drink,” I said.
“It’s not whiskey,” said the gunslinger. “It’s liquid courage. Made by a wizard who lives out in the hills.”
I took the flask, held it to my nose, and…
It didn’t smell like alcohol.
It smelled like… well, it’s hard to describe…
It smelled like courage.
Chest-puffed out, none of the stink of fear kind.
I didn’t drink any, though.
I mean, his lips had been on the flask.
Bleeeeeeeeeeech! Disgusting!