The world is my gym.
The sidewalk is my treadmill.
And the membership is free.
Sometimes, it’s raining.
Sometimes, it’s hot.
Sometimes, it’s cold.
Sometimes, it’s windy.
But, usually, it’s nice out.
The birds are singing.
I can’t hear them.
I have my headphones on.
A bird swoops past my head, flapping.
Defending its nest.
This happens every day.
I think about bringing a club.
Or a weighted sock.
To stun the aggressive avian.
What if I kill it?
Who would feed the baby birds?
I imagine myself, perched over featherless chicks.
Then vomiting into the nest
Where’s my ladder?
Category: My stories
The Statue
We dug up the statue and cleaned it off.
It was a golden angel, and it was perfect in every way.
When was it made?
Who made it?
Why?
It didn’t weigh like it was solid gold. We thumped it and it sounded hollow, but filled with something.
Did we dare open it?
We had it shipped back to the university, and after careful examination, we found an unobtrusive spot to drill.
The hole grew deeper, deeper…
That’s when the poison gas leaked out, and as we choked, we realized it was the artist’s final statement:
Don’t fuck with perfection.
Sense Of Home
The difference between house and home.
Home is where you feel safe. Home is where you belong.
The moment you no longer feel safe or feel you belong, it no longer feels like home.
Afraid. Hurt. Breathing quickly.
Violated.
Add locks, add alarms.
There’s nothing you can add to bring back that sense of home.
So, you go somewhere else. You search for some place safe.
Where you feel like you belong.
It takes time.
Cuts scar over. Bruises vanish.
You stop jumping at every noise.
Eventually, you forget to be afraid, and the worry slowly goes away.
Welcome home.
Get your own ghost!
What are you doing, wrapping your rage in a ghost?
If you’re going to be an asshole, do it on your own terms!
Don’t go dragging their good name through the mud as you bloody your fists on someone face.
It’s disgusting when you wrap yourself in the flag and act all patriotic for profit, but it’s utterly revolting how you exploit the memory of someone who trusted you.
How could you?
What’s even worse is that you didn’t even wait for them to die.
I wish you were dead, because I can’t wait to do the same to you.
We Talk
I know it’s impolite to do so, but we talk about you behind your back.
Literally. We stand right behind you and talk about you behind your back.
Oh, you can hear us back here?
What if we whisper. Like this?
Still hear us?
Well, I guess that defeats the purpose of talking about you behind your back if you can hear it.
Maybe if you would lean against a wall and we can talk about you on the other side of the wall?
That’s not the same?
Well, at least our conversation puts your back up against the wall.
Jif Skippy
Girls are not made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
They are made of peanut butter.
You know, If I made a daughter out of peanut butter, I’d name her Jif Skippy.
Because if I made a son out of peanut butter, I’d name him Tom.
No, I wouldn’t name him Peter Pan. Because everyone else making boys out of peanut butter name their boys Peter Pan.
Some use chunky, others use smooth.
I don’t have a preference, as long as it isn’t low-cost generic.
If you’re going to make a daughter out of peanut butter, use quality ingredients.
Resource
The company handbook says that their most important resource is their employees.
Bullshit. When you work for SolarNet Energy, the most precious resource is the orbiting array of reflectors and collectors.
If there’s a choice between you and the array…
Let me rephrase that. There is no choice. We protect the array at any cost.
Any cost.
The previous CEO of the company wanted a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
I said “Dumb idea.”
She insisted. And she accidentally started an electron cascade reaction.
After they pulled out her charred corpse and fixed the grid, I said “Well done, guys. Flip the switch.”
Hostages
Gunshots.
Screams.
Alarms.
Shouting.
Then, after a while, sirens.
The bank job went sour, so the robbers took hostages.
“We brought plenty of water and food for ourselves,” they said. “Either meet our demands or these hostages can starve.”
Pizzas and cokes arrived quickly, but the FBI refused their demands.
“Don’t you want a helicopter?” they asked. “Or a bus to the airport?”
“Nope,” the robbers said. “We want horsey-back rides out of here. We hadn’t had those in years and loved getting them as kids.”
When the situation was over, the FBI had to admit, they had fun, too.
Feathers
She carries the sack full of feathers.
I carry the fan, dragging a long extension cord behind me.
When we get to the Henderson’s, I set down the fan
She opens up the sack.
I turn on the fan.
It’s loud. Really loud.
The strongest one I could find that I could still carry.
She knocks on the door.
But I can’t hear it. The fan is that loud.
I can’t hear the deadbolt turning and the door opening, either.
But I hear the yelling when she dumps the feathers on the fan.
That’s when the feathers start to fly.
Smithereens
The kids built an airship, rigging bicycles and peach-crates to a massive solar-heated airbag with a lightweight steering and ballast system.
After a few test flights and an inspection by the county engineer, I gave them permission to take it to school.
“Check the forecast,” I said. “If there’s any chance of rain, you’re taking the bus or walking.”
They used to ride their bikes, but those were now a part of the airship.
Pedaling quickly, they rise into the air gracefully.
That’s when I see their bookbags still on the porch.
Little scamps!
I run for a dangling tether-rope.