On every girl’s birthday, they name each of the candles on their cake after a boy, and if only one is left burning when they make their wish and blow them out, then that’s the boy they’ll marry.
The more candles, the harder it is to blow them all out, but Mary did, no matter how big Mother baked the cake and how wide she set the candles apart.
Then, one year, surrounded by her college friends, she blew out the candles, and one remained flickering.
“Sam,” Mary said.
Next to her, Mary’s girlfriend grinned. “You know I prefer Samantha.”
Category: My stories
The Law Of Sangreal Conservation
It’s every orphan’s dream to be told that they’re really a princess to be whisked away to the family’s castle in a horse-drawn carriage.
Leslie’s heart was pounding as they made their way along the forest road.
Then, they pulled to the side of the road and stopped.
At first, she was worried that she was going to be told it was all a big mistake, but a rattletrap carriage was coming the other way.
A girl’s voice within, screaming threats and obscenities.
Then, she realized, it’s also every princess’ nightmare to be told they’re an impostor, and sent away.
Grandmother Island
We did our best to shelter Timmy from learning about death, so when my mother died, we told him that she was on a long trip to Grandma Island.
He wanted to go with her, like when we’d all gone to Disneyland.
“No,” I said. “Only Grandma can go to Grandma Island. It’s like Muslims and Mecca. They arrest and kill anyone who isn’t a Grandma on Grandma Island.”
At first, Timmy was sad that he’d never see his grandmother again.
Then, he wrote letters to her, and mailed them.
Sometimes, I wish she’d respond.
I miss you too, Mom.
War Torn
Abraham Lincoln told his family of a strange nightmare, waking up and hearing sobbing from invisible mourners, seeing a raised platform with a shrouded corpse on it.
“Who is dead in the White House?” he asked.
“The President,” said a guard. “He was killed by an assassin.”
Abe said there was a loud burst of grief that woke him up, but the truth was, he climbed into the coffin with his own corpse and had mad passionate sex with it.
Abe never got the chance to explore his latent homosexual necrophiliac tendencies.
Well, that, and restore the war-torn nation, either.
Roll Your Own
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.
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?