Category: My stories

Energy Drinks

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Rob watched Lisa suck down can after can of Red Bull.
“That shit will kill you,” said Rob.
Lisa’s only answer was to burp, toss the empty in the wastebin, and walk out the door.
She had a standing order to keep her supplied, but they were running late.
So, she walked to the store, bought another 5 cans, and headed home.
The brakes failed on the delivery truck, and it slammed into her as she was crossing the street.
No, I’m not pouring out this Red Bull on the curb in her memory.
I just don’t like the stuff.

Acronym

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You’ve heard of Zeus and Apollo, but have you heard of Acronym?
No?
He’s not the best-known of the Olympian gods, but where the others just putter about in the Old Gods Rest Home, Acronym is still active and involved in the affairs of man.
He whispers in the ears of the clever and the cunning, helping them find simple words into which to pack the cumbersome phrases that describe their political and social movements.
For good or evil, truth or lies – he is at their side, serving man’s desire for simplicity and catchiness.
Acronym laughs and winks, whispering more.

Yuri

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Yuri comes home tonight.
He is a cosmonaut. He is a hero.
He will be coming home from a mission tonight.
We wait at the Cosmodrome, listening to the controllers talk Yuri and his capsule down, making calculations and adjustments.
A bottle of vodka is waiting for him. Many bottles of vodka will be opened tonight in his honor.
Then, the radio goes silent. And we all watch the main screen, waiting.
A fireball, streaking across the sky, exploding into the mountain.
Some controllers stay at their consoles, working.
Others reach for the vodka.
We watch, still waiting for Yuri.

Father

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Sitting here on the park bench, watching the kids run and play, I feel like I have been missing out on the joys of fatherhood.
What would it be like to raise a child? Would all my doubts and fears fade as I take on that role? (Or, I suppose, the role take over me.)
No. The doctors warned me about thinking like this, trying again.
My hands clench and release, over and over.
Stop.
Not again. No more blood. No more screaming.
I get up slowly, walk back to my workshop, and stare at the puppet-boy.
Stay wood, Pinocchio.

Fruit

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Are tomatoes vegetables or fruit?
After decades of research, Dr. Milton still didn’t know the answer.
In fact, his latest findings suggested that they were both.
This is not an unreasonable conclusion, fruits and vegetables are just two terms created by man to describe his surroundings, right?
A wave of depression fell over him. All those years, completely wasted.
He hung up his lab coat and just wandered for a while.
He roamed through war-ravaged Spain, angry and frustrated.
“Care for a tomato?” offered a pushcart vendor.
“Damn you,” growled Dr. Milton.
Bunol. Spain. 1945.
Yep. That’s how Tomatina began.

Green Tea

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The mystic prepares to read my tea leaves.
“Drink,” she says when the tea ready.
So, I do, and she turns the empty cup on the saucer.
As she lifts the cup, her eyes open wide.
“This is horrible!” she says. “You are going to die soon!”
“What? How? Why?”
She picks up the phone and calls for an ambulance.
“How am I supposed to die?” I ask, grabbing and shaking her.
She draws a gun and shoots me in the chest.
“That’s how,” she says, checking my wallet and taking out the money. “He attacked me!” she whined, practicing.

Lawnmower

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I don’t like mowing the lawn.
So, I bought a robotic lawnmower.
It’s eco-friendly, running on batteries charged by solar cells. And the motor is very quiet, almost a whisper.
This way, it can run during the day or at night.
It knows where to mow using a set of guide wires I’ve buried along the property line.
Just charge, set, and release inside the invisible fence.
The next morning: a beautifully-cut lawn.
And three dead hookers on the grass.
The first time I ran it, there was only one.
I’ll bury these three next to her.
Under the grass.

Bessie

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It’s winter in Detroit, midnight.
Bessie sits alone out on the patio in her nightshirt, waiting.
A black robe comes out from the shadows.
“Where have you been all these years?” she asks it.
A raspy whisper, like dry bones scraping against each other: “It was not your time.”
“My sons, my Stephen are all gone.” She feels a chill deep within her. “Is it my time soon?”
“Soon.”
“Will you wait with me?”
Death sits down next to her, they hold hands, and wait for morning together.
Sleep.
Deep sleep.
She wakes up in the hospital with pneumonia.
“LIAR!”

Crimson

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Crimson waves, the blood tide is rising.
This is no moon. We have landed on a living thing.
Are the natives a roaming immune system? Parasites?
No idea. We will samples so researchers back on base can make the call.
We can’t stay much longer. The landing gear cut up the creature something fierce, and it’s wanting to scab over.
The more we dig out the struts, the more patch-cells it sends.
As we lift off, I figure next time, maybe we’ll use a bubble-craft, something soft.
That’s when the tentacles hit the hull.
Brace yourselves, we’re going back down!

Make me pretty and dead

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“Make me pretty and dead,” said the model to the robotic plastic surgeon.
At least, that’s what the translation engine thought she said.
She stripped naked and stepped into the surgical chamber, watching the various lasers and scalpels warm up.
Behind her, a defibrillator prepared to administer a lethal jolt of electricity.
A technician ran into the room and shouted “STOP!”
The lights on the robotic surgeon all turned off, and the model covered herself with her hands.
The technician handed her a robe.
“Sorry, mistranslation in the software,” he said. “And, come on, aren’t you already drop-dead gorgeous enough?”