Where do I get my ideas?
I don’t know. Everywhere, I guess.
I’m walking along, minding my own business, and I see something that inspires me.
I used to keep a spiralbound notebook with me for those times, to write down the ideas.
Then I got a smartphone, but when my hands were full, or I got ideas in the shower (sometimes the same thing, really), I’d end up forgetting them.
Now, I have a monk write everything down for me, any hour of the day.
Brother William is loyal and efficient.
While I am a complete and total douchebag.
Category: My stories
The Magic of Music
I came upon a grassy meadow
Massive human hands
Raising violin bows
Like magicians’ wands
Notes rose from the grass
Like dandelion seeds in the breeze
Rising… Rising…
Fading fading vanishing
I could not see any strings
The hands remained still
I heard music all around
A voice: “Music is the magic of life.”
I sat, watched, listened
I think of it again, and smile
The shadows grew long
I thought about heading back home
It’s still out there, that meadow
Where it is, I do not know
I’ve never come across it again
Closing my eyes, the magic returns
Property Values
The housing market’s in trouble, and everybody’s worried about property values going down.
Somehow, that building you live in stopped being a home and became an investment.
A bad investment.
So, you come up with a plan.
Drag the treadmill to the front porch, find the tightest traffic-stopping spandex you can fit into, and see what happens.
A week goes by.
Two weeks.
Three weeks.
You check the online property values map site your friend told you about.
The numbers have gone up.
“I’ve still got it,” you tell yourself, heading for the shower.
(And leave the window curtain open.)
Rending
Do you like my shirt?
Thank you. I just got it.
Yes, it’s a very expensive shirt.
Oh, sure, it was on sale and there’s that sales tax holiday going on, but it still cost me a pretty penny.
I wanted to look my best for my sister’s surgery.
You see, it’s an experimental surgery. Very risky.
We’re hoping for the best, but things could go wrong.
And when things go wrong, well, we Jews do that whole “rending of garments” thing.
So she knows how much I’m pulling for her.
(But if things go wrong, I’m tearing my pants.)
Leading
The old saying goes: You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.
Especially if it’s a vampire horse. Those only drink blood.
However, when you do the math, they’re a lot cheaper to take care of that normal horses.
They don’t need all that veterinary work, shoes, or other crap. Maybe the occasional fancy Victorian-style leather saddle.
None of that glitter or black eyeliner crap. Fuck Twilight, dude.
Oh, and fresh victims every now and then, which if you don’t mind going through a new stable boy every few days, isn’t much of an imposition.
You, who are strong…
Frank told me that he loved poetry. Always wanted to be a poet.
Instead, he became a dentist. His parents made him go to college and then medical school for dentistry, but he absolutely hated it now.
He sneaks out at night to go to poetry readings in coffeehouses and he reads his poetry.
Wakes up tired, exhausted. So tired, he makes mistakes.
As if he cares at his work anymore.
“I just blow through checkups now,” he says. “I get paid either way, right?”
I just stare back.
“Oh. Right. You’re fine. I think. Whatever. Go ahead and spit.”
Whirlwind
The whirlwind catches the leaves on the ground and tosses them everywhere.
It’s hard to see, Becky holds my hand tight, running as fast as we can to the barn.
Her long blond hair, waving in every direction, caught by the breezes.
As we make it to the barn, I slam the door shut. “Are you okay?”
She is covering her baldness, scowling at me.
“Go get my hair,” she demands.
I push against the door, fighting the wind.
“Can’t you just wear a hat?”
“Go get it.”
The look on her face was…
I’d rather face the damn tornado.
Saucy Tim
Sometimes, I wonder if A Christmas Carol was just a CIA experiment involving hallucinogenic mustard.
The ghosts.
The memories.
The visions.
All his deep-buried secrets and fears, unleashed in a night of guilt and terror.
I mean, even Scrooge was suspicious, right? “Tis only a blot of mustard.”
If only he’d followed that suspicion instead of dismissed it so readily, the world would be a different place.
Sure, Tiny Tim would have died, but all those hookers he killed when he grew up to become Jack The Ripper wouldn’t have been brutally slaughtered.
God bless them, each and every one.
The Darkness Upon The Deep
Ever been on a boat
Out on the water
Miles from shore
No maps
Waiting for the night
The sun goes down
Laying back, looking up
With just the stars
No waves
No noise
No light
Looking up at the stars
So many lights
So bright
So calm
Falling up
Into the midnight sky
You’re nowhere
You’re everywhere
Feeling nothing
No cold
No heat
No breeze
So peaceful
And then, a horn
What?
How?
Oh no
Falling from the sky, you rush to the engines
Start… start… start…
Will you get out of the way before that container ship hits?
A Rainbow At The End
I take the stuffed catnip rainbow from the shelf, turning it over in my hands.
Of all the catnip toys, this was his favorite.
The memorial candles, the collars, the others’ favorite toys.
The boxes of ashes.
And a note: Their tenth lives are our memory of them.
The kittens run around, chasing each other.
Two years old, but I call them the kittens.
The older one, much older… naps in the bedroom, with his uneasy stomach.
Will he be fine tonight? Yes? No?
I reach down, his head rises to meet my hand.
Not yet, my friend. Not yet.