She was the girl of my dreams.
Every time I’d go to sleep, I’d dream of her.
Adventure.
Romance.
Excitement.
I’d rescue her from all kinds of dangerous predicaments.
Then. when I woke up, she was gone.
“I’ve got to find her,” I said.
So, I looked. Everywhere.
I spent all I had on detectives to search the world for her.
When I found her, she attacked me with a knife.
“Why?” I groaned. “Why did you attack me?”
“You,” she said. “You’re the man from all my nightmares. Whenever you appear, bad always happens.”
And she stabbed me again.
Category: My stories
Happen
I’m awake.
Did what I think happened happen?
No. It couldn’t have.
I look around the room.
There’s blood on the walls.
Blood on the ceiling.
Blood on my hands.
Blood on the sheets of the bed.
I don’t want to look at them.
I don’t want to see her under there.
I stumble to the bathroom and throw up in the sink.
Looking in the mirror, I’m covered with blood splatters… it’s on my face, in my hair…
I hear a moan coming from the bed.
Wait.
She… she’s alive?
After all that?
“Try harder,” she groans. “Kill me.”
Middle Age
Middle Age in the Middle Ages was younger than Middle Age here in the Modern Age.
Life expectancy has greatly increased, so Middle Age comes later.
Although for most, it’s still not in the middle. If you’re going to live to seventy or eighty, fifty is past your actual middle.
Back when I was young, I misheard someone say “Middle Age” and it sounded like “Meddle Age.”
Which, considering how much Middle Aged people meddle with young people, it sounded right.
“Don’t believe a word of it!” said the Middle Aged person. “Just do what I tell you to do.”
The Winner
I am the winner. Give me a medal.
I will not accept just a plaque. Unless the plaque is used for displaying a copy of the medal I am wearing.
I do not want a trophy. I do not own a trophy case, and a trophy deserves more than just a bookshelf.
Plus, I cannot wear the trophy around like I can wear a medal.
I will not let you give me just a ribbon. If you give me a ribbon, it had better be used to hang the medal around my neck.
Ribbons can’t stop bullets like medals, either.
Pet
It’s springtime again.
I want to go down to the stream and gather rocks and pebbles.
My pet turtle likes fresh ones in his terrarium every spring.
After school, I go down to the creek and fill the bottom of my bookbag with stones.
When I get home, I put my turtle in the sink and carry his bowl to the back yard to dump out the rocks and water
Then I bring the bowl back inside, wash it out, and arrange the new rocks.
A little water, and then I put the toy plastic turtle back in his bowl.
Raising
This neighborhood is a great place to raise a family.
Especially if you want to raise them from the dead.
Yeah, this subdivision’s built on an ancient Indian burial ground.
What? You don’t want to raise an Indian family?
You’re not racists, are you?
Oh. Good. Well, then… the block over there is built on the site of a Presbyterian church. Maybe they had a cemetery along with it?
Just look for the stones marked “Infant” or “Son” or “Daughter.”
Unless you find a name you really like, because, let’s face it: the walking dead are lousy with new names.
The Knee
My left knee is a wreck. The surgeons cannot decide how best to repair it. So, delaying action, they take more X-rays.
I think they hope the radiation will cause a cancer that necessitates amputation. It would be so much easier to build a metal leg than repair this one.
Hiring a midget and giving him a samurai sword, however, was taking things too far.
The insurance company disagreed. In fact, hiring sword-waving midgets is covered by Medicare Plan A.
“Just try not to bend down,” says a surgeon. “He might try to chop off your head, despite the contract.”
Shambles
Y’all there in New York City may be having troubles, but here in Shambles, Oklahoma, things ain’t too bad, really.
School’s doin’ good.
Church is full every Sunday.
Business is business, I reckon.
“Your Life Is In Shambles!” is the motto of the Shambles Picayune and that always gets a laugh out at the barbershop.
You might ask yourself how we be doin’ so good?
Well, that rope around your neck and this here pentagram on the floor is part of the answer.
The rest, well, you can ask Satan when we sacrifice your soul to him in a minute.
Sled
I live in the south where it’s warm most of the time. When it gets cold, I can feel it. Deep.
Growing up, I lived north where it snowed. The cold didn’t bother me then. I loved it. It was fun.
We didn’t have sleds or saucers. Instead, we hosed down sheets of cardboard, let them freeze, and slid down hills, holding tight.
We crashed. We laughed.
One kid wanted to bobsled like they do in the Olympics.
A portable toilet on it’s side, door hanging open, full of kids.
And spilled shit.
Thank God I was the one pushing.
Leprechauns
I’ve been doing some experiments with Leprechauns recently.
Just like werewolves, silver bullets kill them.
Just like vampires, a stake through the heart kills them.
Just like mummies, fire kills them.
Heck, pretty much everything kills a leprechaun.
Even Funyons. Those kill Leprechauns, too. Funyons!
These little green boogers are just a bunch of pussies, really.
I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when one of the leprechauns in my experiment keeled over and died.
Thank god they’re all dead. They started hoarding gold in my Caphalon pots and they scratched up the anti-stick coating.
Damn little bastards!