Category: My stories

Squeegie

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Every day, I drive to work on Culpepper Road.
And every day, the same homeless guy is standing there at the light.
He stands there with a squeegie and two buckets, offering to clean your windshield.
His cardboard sign says he’ll do it for free, God bless you, and the usual crap.
But he’s really expecting a buck. Or five.
If you give him money, he uses the bucket full of soapy water.
If you don’t give him money, he splashes the other bucket on your car.
What’s in the bucket?
Drive by there, don’t pay him, and find out.

Contrived

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The police reviewed the tapes from the bank and admitted that the scene looked somewhat contrived.
Robbers were holding sheets of paper in their hands, reading their lines, while the bank teller kept prompting them every time they went off-script.
Their guns looked like toy guns. The orange tips gave them away.
When the bank teller accidentally hit the alarm switch with his knee, he kept saying “I’m sorry about that!” and helped the robbers carry two sacks of cash to the getaway car.
As we questioned him, the bank teller shouted: “I kidnapped the Lindbergh Baby!”
Crazy little twerp.

On the eighth day…

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On the seventh day, God rested.
But on the eighth day, the angels came to God’s office and found the door locked.
There were strange sounds coming from behind the door.
Nothing the angels immediately recognized.
Maybe heavy breathing, or a wet finger stroked along the lip of a wineglass.
They knocked a few times, but the door didn’t open.
And the sounds became louder and stranger.
Some of the angels wanted to break the door down, but in the end, they just walked away.
On the ninth day, there was no door.
The angels walked in circles and screamed.

The Prayer Flags

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Atisha Cho was a Tibetan stripper who’s routine involved the judicious use and slow removal of strings of prayer flags.
As she peeled away the blue flags, the skies darkened.
As she peeled away the white flags, the wind ran through her hair.
As she peeled away the red flags, the fires burned brighter.
As she peeled away the green flags, it started to rain.
And as she peeled away the yellow flags, the ground shook and cracked open, swallowing her up, screaming and naked.
Since then, Tibetan strippers only use veils.
And leave the prayer flags to the wind.

The Minister

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We are a small town on the prairie.
Not many people come here from the rest of the world.
And we really like it here, there’s not much reason to leave.
We don’t bother with televisions, the one radio station’s fine enough.
It plays the same music it has always played, over and over.
Because we grew up with it, and like it.
There’s one church we all go to every Sunday.
The minister starts at the pulpit, gives the same sermon every week.
Then we go home, step on to our recharger pads, and all shut down.
Good night.

The Middle Name

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I don’t have a middle name.
I mean, I don’t have one anymore.
I sold it to someone who didn’t have a middle name, found mine interesting, and offered me money for it.
“Why not just change your name?” I asked.
“We don’t do that in my culture,” he said. “There are only so many names available, and we compete for them. If we cannot win one, we buy it.”
He handed me a check.
There was a large number on it.
I agreed and wrote my name on it.
Then scratched out the middle name. It’s not mine anymore.

Fear

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Final evening approaches: Ramadan.
Father enters, asks “Ready?”
Forty elders and relatives.
Fatima expects a riot.
Find everyone a rug.
Face east and recite.
Fatima’s excited. Allah! Rejoice!
Fasting ends. All relax.
Fried eggs are ready.
Fennel, eggplant, and rice.
Fish, endive, and rosemary.
“Fantastic! Elegant! Amazing! Righteous!”
Friends eat and ruminate.
Finish eating and regroup.
“Fun? Entertainment?” ask relatives.
Farts. Embarrassment. Awfully rude.
Flustered excuses and revulsion.
Family endeavors are rowdy.
Former enemies are restless.
Fighting erupts! Anger! Retaliation!
Flailing everywhere. Angry responses.
Father exclaims: “All right!”
Fighting ends abruptly, respectfully.
Finding exits, all retire.
Fatima, exhausted and run-down.

Knots in my stomach

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I feel knots in my stomach.
So, I swallow a Boy Scout.
He crawls back out.
“I forgot my flashlight,” he says, and crawls back in.
He tries to untie it, but it turns out that his knots badge is a fake.
So, I go down to the docks and swallow a dockworker.
You’d think that a professional who works with knots all day could untie it, but he was stumped.
“I just do boat hitches,” he said, tipping his cap and going back to work.
So, you say you’re a backpacker?
Handy with bungee cord?
Mind taking a look?

My Spy

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An assassin is following me.
He’s an expert at this. Wouldn’t suspect a thing if you saw him there.
Friendly. Polite. Well-groomed.
But I know what he’s really doing:
Following me.
So, I turn the tables on him.
I put on a disguise, cover my tracks, and follow him.
He doesn’t suspect a thing. Doesn’t break cover. Maintains his routine.
Excellent.
I corner him in an alley, a knife to his throat.
He’s surprised and denies being my assassin.
Just like all the rest.
I bury him in the park with the others.
And wait for another to follow me.

The Kraken

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Off the coast of Port Byron, the seas boil with tentacles.
The Great Kraken has returned for its Solstice Sacrifice, part of the pact our ancestors made with the beast.
We load up a boat with murderers, thieves, and the feeble, lowering it into the water and sending its shabby crew to their doom.
Some townsfolk make a picnic out of the occasion.
They toast the ancestors with champagne, and feast on kraken tentacles, boiled in butter.
We give up our own, the Great Kraken reciprocates.
One taste, and you’ll agree that we got the better end of the deal.