Category: My stories

The Mummy Train

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Mark Twain used to joke that the wrappings for mummies were used in pulp for newspapers and their bodies burned to run trains.
But neither was true.
Instead, mummies were employed by the newspapers in the printing presses, shambling around the massive rollers.
If one got caught up in the machinery and torn to bits, who cared, right? They were already dead, their families long gone.
Letting them don engineer caps and run trains, well, that was a lot more dangerous. Mummy brakemen tended to ignore warning signals, and only so many accidents were tolerated before they all were retired.

Crazy Never Sleeps

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Crazy never sleeps.
You might crawl into bed and close your eyes, but while you’re asleep, Crazy is up and pacing the floor, listening to voices that nobody speaks with.
Crazy can’t be locked in the basement or tied to a chair. No matter what you do, Crazy gets loose and goes crazy on everything.
Broken dishes.
Knives stuck in the sofa.
The tub overflowing again.
Who knows what you’ll wake up to this time?
So, you stay up later… and later…
You try to stay up later than crazy does.
Then you realize: you’ve been the Crazy all along.

Mushroom King

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We all marvel at the magnificent crown of The Mushroom King.
But how did he get his mighty crown?
Well, as all Mushroom Kings do: he rolled his head in a bucket of shit, cultivated and grew mushrooms on it, and kept them growing… and growing… and growing…
Until he had the greatest crown of all.
That’s when we named him the new Mushroom King.
As for his throne, that’s from the previous Mushroom King.
His crown grew far too large, and he sank into the shit, gone forever.
Except for his crown, for the new king to sit on.

The Axe

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Every time I go to Lord Greybeard’s Castle, I can’t help but stare at the axe he’s mounted over the fireplace in the Main Hall.
It’s old and rusty, but every so often there’s fresh blood along the blade.
There’s no way that Lord Greybeard used it, let alone any of his servants.
The thing is massive, with a six foot wooden shaft and a blade that must weigh over a hundred pounds.
Lord Greybeard notices my curiosity, puts an arm around my shoulder, and laughs. “I cut myself shaving,” he says.
Then, his screaming head slides off his neck.

Draw a red line

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I watch my daughter drawing a red line.
She started drawing on her sketchbook, but ran off of the paper, along the floor…
And right out the door.
I shouted for her to come back, but why worry? She’ll run out of ink or get tired…
One hour… two hours…
I get up and shout again.
No answer.
So, I follow the red line.
That was seventeen years and ten thousand miles ago.
You can’t see the line?
Oh, it’s there. Just too faint for you to see.
But I can.
And I will follow it until I find her.

The Candles

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When Bobby turned five, he wanted his cake decorated like that “Harry Potter” series of books he’d seen, but was too young to read or watch the movies.
“No,” his mother said.
(When you’re five, you don’t take no for an answer.)
So, his mother made a cake with a demon made out of chocolate cookies inside an icing pentagram, a candle at each star point.
At the party, all of Bobby’s friends sang, and then he blew out the candles.
“What did you wish for?” his mother asked.
The demon on the cake opened its eyes.
“That,” grinned Bobby.

Child Actors

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The problem with child actors is that they eventually group up.
But if a series is popular, you want it to go on forever.
Recasting the parts is risky. Even with surgery, no two kids are alike.
We’ve tried cloning, but DNA only goes so far. The clones can be just as different as a surgically-altered double.
Computer-generated actors provide a consistent look and sound, but they’re horribly expensive to create and maintain. And they’re not as expressive as real humans.
Growth-suppression hormones are the answer. Freeze them at the age you want.
Kids love candy, you know.
Drugged candy.

Immortal

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I am immortal. And I am serving a life sentence in prison.
Sounds like a bad Twilight Zone episode, right?
It’s not. It’s my life.
And I am in prison for the rest of it.
Forever.
Maybe they’ll figure it out after a few decades,
Or, after “the organization” sends a few more guys after me.
Those knives hurt. But they can’t kill me.
Will I survive having my head cut off? Or being tossed in the furnace?
I don’t know. But they’re welcome to try.
Guilty? No. I didn’t kill her.
And I don’t want to live without her.

Your Shadow

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Sometimes
The world stinks
So much
That your shadow
Your goddamned shadow
Has to take
A long bath
To wash
It off
No matter
How much
It scrubs
And scrubs
The world’s stink
Sticks harder
And never
Washes off
Completely
Everything stinks
Around you
Cover it up
All you want
With soaps
And perfumes
It’s still there
And it never
Goes away
If your shadow
Can’t come clean,
What hope
Do you have?
None.
Pull the plug
The water
Drains out
You tried
But
That stink
Gets worse
So bad you gag
Close your eyes
And wish
It all
Away

Footprints

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Footprints in and of themselves aren’t terribly interesting.
But when you take them in context, that’s when my curiosity is piqued.
Walking to the edge of the roof…
Walking straight into a wall…
Walking in a perfect circle without beginning or end…
And then there’s the depth, which tells you how much the person weighs.
Or is carrying. A body, for instance.
There’s shoe tread, all sorts of factors there.
There’s nothing unusual about my footsteps.
Well, besides the fact that I’ve got flat feet, but that’s no crime.
What? The fact that they’re bloody?
I can explain that. Really.