Owen is only a year old, but he solves puzzles.
He never puts the pieces in his mouth or tosses them into the air.
Instead, he picks out sides and corners and snaps the puzzle together quickly.
When he’s done, he moves on to the next puzzle.
No Legos.
No Tinkertoys, blocks or Lincoln Logs.
He smiles and waits for a puzzle.
I gave him an all-white puzzle, and he solved it just as quickly.
Monica left the fridge open this morning.
Owen crawled in, and started to assemble the food within.
That’s when we heard the moaning.
And screaming.
Category: My stories
Creation
I stepped out of the time machine and tripped over a dead cougar.
A deep voice hissed “Who’s that?”
I got back up and rubbed my eyes, not quite sure I was seeing what I was seeing.
It was God, standing at a workbench, piled high with burnt and bloody animal parts.
Behind him, stacks of scorched trees and polluted rivers and other things.
“I went back in time to witness Creation?” I gasped.
“No, you went forward,” God growled. “After the nuclear war. I’m just trying to scrape something together.”
He pointed a lightning bolt at me. “Without humans.”
The Tale Winner
The Canterbury Tales are a collection of stories about a group of pilgrims heading to a shrine, passing the time with a storytelling contest.
The winner was to get a free meal upon return from the pilgrimage.
Today, only a portion of the manuscripts are known to the public, as many tales are missing, and we are left without knowing who won the contest.
Until today.
Reading the ancient papers on a lighted workbench, I learn of a man dressed in a black cloak and hood, silent as the night, dining alone.
Yes, it’s true.
The Ninja won the contest.
Weedhaven
Listen to the children.
Laughing.
Crying.
Screaming.
Another fine day at The Weedhaven Laughing Academy.
They are all in their pajamas.
They are all in their rooms.
They are all in their beds.
Laughing.
Crying.
Screaming.
Will we let them out?
Will we let them play?
Will we let them have fun today?
No, no matter how much they laugh.
Or cry.
Or scream.
Check the locks on the doors.
Check them twice.
And check them again.
Don’t worry about the bars on the windows.
There are no bars.
Or windows.
Just walls.
To contain the children.
Laughing.
Crying.
Screaming.
Woodshed
Whenever Joey is bad, I tell him to fetch my belt and meet me behind the shed.
He stands there, holding out my belt.
I take it from him and put it on. “Darn trousers keep slipping without it.”
I grab his head by the ears, twist it off, and take it into the shed where I keep his spare parts.
There’s two heads on the workbench, but one’s torn down.
I put down the head in my hands and pick up the other.
When I go back outside, Joey’s gone.
When I find him, yeah, he’s getting the belt.
Twenty Years Ago
Doctor Odd remembered his grandfather saying “The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago.”
So, he built a time machine and seed-spreading hoverdrones.
“If twenty years ago is the best time, then forty years ago is better!” Doctor Odd muttered to himself.
He pressed the ENGAGE button…
And he blacked out.
Coming to, he rubbed his head and his hands came back bloody.
“Damn it,” he grumped, and tried to stand up.
His head hit a tree branch.
His workshop was now a thick forest.
Looking around, he saw trees everywhere.
And heard the howls of wolves.
Uranus
Dave’s sons were at his funeral, in chains and guarded by marshals.
Now, when I say sons, I really mean genetic clones.
Dave grew them in his twenties and raised them as his sons, but an accident at work left him crippled and sick.
His doctors told him they could replace what was damaged with donor material from his sons.
So, he invited them to dinner, drugged them, and faked signatures on consent forms.
When they awoke, they found themselves weary and mutilated.
One was dead, missing his heart and liver.
They had their savage revenge on the medical Uranus.
Moving Hassles
I really hate moving.
It’s such a hassle, packing and loading and unloading and unpacking and filing claims and all that crap.
Now when I get a new place, I pay someone to steal all my stuff.
Then, I report it and the insurance company pays to replace it.
All new stuff shows up at my new place by delivery van, and for a few bucks, they assemble and set it all up.
Except one thing… the guys I paid to rob me found out where I live, and they robbed me again.
Oh well.
Let’s go out to eat.
Cord
My wife shook me awake.
“There’s an extension cord running into the sewer,” she said.
So I got up, put on my robe and slippers, and went outside.
Sure enough, an orange extension cord led to the sewer.
I tugged on it
It didn’t budge.
The other end led down the street for a bit, and then went straight up… and up…
I swear, it went as far as I could see, right towards the sun.
I tugged down on it.
And it came loose.
We ran inside as miles of orange cord came falling down from the darkening sky.
Sic Semper Tyrannis?
It starts with the rumors on Twitter.
“Ghadafi captured.”
Then come the rumors that he’s been killed.
Jokes that Ghadafi’s captured, Khadafi killed, and Qadafy’s denying it all.
A photo appears. People shout “Photoshop!”
Finally, confirmation. He’s dead.
Drudge Report posts a photo of Obama shaking hands with Ghadafi.
Ghadafi’s in one of his wacked-out robes, looking like Keith Richards gone mad in a bazaar.
I mutter “Why is he shaking hands with that asshole?”
“It’s diplomacy,” says my friend. “Even dictators like Ghadafi get basic respect.”
I laugh. “I mean why is Ghadafi shaking hands with that asshole Obama?”