I got married in Vegas eleven years ago.
It was a small ceremony. Friends and family.
And a preacher who was drunk out of his fucking mind.
He stumbled and slurred his way through the ceremony, and he couldn’t stop staring down the Maid Of Honor’s dress.
Then, at the end, he said “You may now kiss the bridge.”
“Don’t you mean bride?” I asked.
But by then, he was passed out, and I thought I smelled gas, so we all ran for it before a spark could blow us all to Kingdom Come.
What about the bridge?
Tasted… rusty.
Category: My stories
Ring
Packed crowd at Madison Square Garden.
A boxer climbs through the ropes and steps into the ring.
The crowd roars.
Another boxer climbs in.
More cheering.
The boxers wait.
“Where’s the ref?” asks the first boxer.
“I dunno,” says the other.
They turn to their corners, but their managers and crews don’t have a clue, either.
A microphone is lowered on a cord, but there’s nobody to take it.
So, one of the boxers grabs it and begins to sing.
The other joins in as harmony.
The crowd loves it.
Beats getting the shit beaten out of you, I suppose.
The Apple
I like to go to the store and buy a bunch of different kinds of apples.
Red. Golden. Macintosh.
All different kinds.
Then I bring them home and slice them up, making an apple buffet.
Each apple has its own unique texture, tartness, sweetness, and juiciness.
I try them all, closing my eyes and picking out slices to put in my mouth, chew slowly, swallow.
I thought about putting out caramel and honey and other things to dip them in, or walnuts and peanuts to roll them in.
But for me, the apples are enough.
Here. Have one, Snow White.
The Valve
Ernest has had heart trouble for years.
The doctor says it’s something congenital, but eating pork and bacon as often as Ernest does doesn’t help matters much.
So, he’s getting a heart valve replacement.
“One of them mechanicals?” asks Ernest.
“Actually, you’re a good candidate for a transplant from a pig’s heart,” said the doctor.
Ernest thinks for a bit. “Good, but one thing, doc?”
“What’s that?” asks the doctor.
“For as much as I’m paying, I should get the rest of the pig,” he says.
Three weeks later, he roasted it on a spit to celebrate leaving the hospital.
Casting Spells
Some witches use wands to cast spells.
Others use potions and herbs.
But I knew of a witch who uses her body as a spellbook.
Tattoos across her limbs, dancing casts the enchantments.
She wears a deep black cloak from head to foot, but sometimes you can see her hand, snakes coiled around each finger.
Singing. Turning. Swaying.
One day, in the middle of casting a spell, she stopped.
And her cloak fell to the ground in a pile.
She’d always worried of a scar or a blemish on her skin disrupting a spell.
Powerful forces had consumed her whole.
The Billionaire
Once upon a time, there was a billionaire who loved wine.
He bought every kind, forever seeking the perfect wine.
He also owned priceless books about wine.
One contain legends of a monastery that produced the best wine ever made.
So, in a hill behind his castle, he recreated the monastery, the winery, the grapes, and the monks.
(With enough money, you can clone anything.)
They made this perfect wine for him.
They were kept faithful with a simple book of rules, and aside from some accidents, they were content to make his wine.
He toasted to their health.
“Cheers.”
The Wine
The brotherhood spent their days following their book of answers, growing grapes and producing wine.
They’d roll the casks into a nearby cave to age.
Brother Timothy thought back as far as he could remember.
Where did the barrels come from? He couldn’t remember any deliveries from the village.
Or where the village was.
Was there a village at all?
He looked around the valley. Just a river, trees, vineyards, and the brotherhood.
And the caves.
Maybe they re-used the wine casks?
Had they ever removed the casks or bottled the wine?
Where did it go?
The book said nothing.
The Well
The well has run dry.
Father William consults the book.
“When the well runs dry, dig another well.”
We get out our augers and shovels, and we begin to dig.
Just as we empty our last rain barrel, the brothers in the well shout.
“We have struck water!”
I sit by the river and scratch my head.
Why do we not use the river? The water is clean and fresh.
Father William points to the book. “It says not to use the river.”
For this, he commanded that my unholy tongue be torn out.
I watch the river flow past.
Brother Judas
There is always one unoccupied cot in the brotherhood dormitory.
Father Timothy tells us of Brother Judas.
“He was once one of us,” he says. “But, one night, he left and never came back.”
Why would a brother leave when there is wine to press, prayers to pray, and the book for all the answers?
That night, I do not sleep.
I look at Brother Judas’ cot. His robe and sandals are under it.
They have never been used.
There are no extra bowls or tools for Judas.
No desk. No scrolls. No chair.
Did he ever exist at all?
The Book
The Brotherhood does everything by the book.
Whenever there is a question, they consult it for answers.
They always find the answer in the book.
What to plant.
How to pray.
When to sleep.
The book has always had all the answers to their questions.
Brother Timothy made a copy of it.
The book did not change over time, like some doppelganger.
“What if we only know questions to ask it?” asked Timothy. “Can we think up a question it can’t answer?”
The book had an answer for that: “Flip the book. Front cover is yes, back cover is no.”