Category: My stories

The Truce

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There’s a demon standing at the gates of Heaven.
He bangs on the lock.
“Let him in,” The Lord says to Peter.
Every year, Satan offers up a Christmas Truce.
And every year, God declines it.
“Just as my son is the Prince of Peace, Lucifer is the Prince of Lies.”
The demon returned to hell, message torn in half.
Satan wept, black tears rolling down his greasy cheeks.
“We will honor it anyway,” he sighed.
With an oily rag, he wipes his face and turns to his minions.
“No missions today,” he says. “Instead, we will train for tomorrow.”

Festivus

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My friend told me about this Festivus Holiday.
It’s based on a Seinfeld episode. The characters made it up to protest Christmas commercialization.
He’s explaining this as he’s propping up an aluminum pole in the middle of the living room.
“Now air out your grievances,” he said.
“What?”
“Air out your grievances,” he says again. “It’s a part of the holiday.”
I can’t think of any.
So, at that point, he shouts “Feats of Strength!” and challenges me to wrestle him.
I don’t think I like Festivus.
He leaps from the sofa, screaming with madness.
I run for the door.

Wth Daddy

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Little Terry was only five, but when mommy asked her what she wanted to do, she said “Go to the moon with Daddy.”
Her mommy smiled, made sure her daughter’s wig was on straight, and checked the IV.
Terminal cancer, while Joe was training.
Two years later, he was wrestling with the controls of the lander.
The retrorockets weren’t firing.
The vessel was falling.
Alarms screaming in his ears, lights flashing everywhere.
Everyone watched on TV.
Except for his wife and daughter.
She’d been cured of the cancer, his wife had divorced him.
She still would get the life insurance.

Everyone’s dying

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On the first night of Christmas, my true love gave to me… a cough.
By the fourth night, the virus had spread throughout the neighborhood.
And on the twelfth night, the CDC put the city under quarantine.
Men in Hazmat suits go door to door, picking up bodies and handing out drugs that we know won’t do a damned thing to cure this superbug.
The news says that it’s in Boston, Chicago, Moscow, Tokyo…
The Chinese deny making it. The Arabs blame “Zionist scientists.”
Everyone’s dying.
So is the fire. We put the suicide capsules in egg nog, and drink.

The Elders

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The tribal elders are angry.
Schools, telephones, roads, Internet.
All are broken, slow, outdated.
The Bureau ignores them. The utility representatives ignore them.
“No budget. Go away.”
So, they come up with a plan.
They follow bureau chiefs and utility executives on their vacations.
They perform rain dances and ruin the vacations.
No helicopter tours. No skiing. No scuba diving. No sight-seeing.
Just restaurants, museums, and the hotels.
They are still ignored.
So, they dance harder. Angrier.
Lightning storms and a hurricane come.
The surviving chiefs and executives yield.
Schools, cell towers, roads are all built.
The elders smile.

Ten Eggs

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I watched the eggs in the incubator hatch.
Ten slimy, wobbly chicks drying off in the heat of the lamps.
They preen, standing on wood shavings.
Not yet eating, drinking. Probably tomorrow.
We’ll move them over to the other box when they’re ready.
Until then, there’s one last egg in the incubator.
It’s glowing green.
The chicks avoid it, preening and peeping on the other side of the incubator.
Wait. There’s only eight of them.
Weren’t there ten before?
The green egg glows brighter.
Maybe we won’t move them out to the other box.
Or open the incubator at all.

Eight Nights

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On the second night of Hanukkah, the rabbis were desperate.
“This re-dedication will fail,” one said. “The consecrated oil will not last another night.”
“What do we have plenty of?” said another rabbi.
They found wine. Lots of it.
“Drink!” they shouted. “Everybody take a bottle and drink yourselves stiff!”
And so, everyone drank and drunk. They drank until they passed out.
The rabbis refilled the lamps with some non-holy oil while everyone slept it off.
“Boy, did you guys party last night!” said the rabbis. “Ready to light up again?”
The real miracle was: the wine lasted eight days.

Gadgets

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The gadgets you buy today will be the junk of tomorrow.
So why not buy junk now and just be a bit behind the curve?
It’s cheaper, less stressful, and you know the things will be tried-and-tested as opposed to the buggy releases available at the bleeding edge.
The guy that I got my secondhand artificial heart from was buying a newer, fancier model. He thought it would be more reliable.
It glitched while he was in an elevator. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was dead.
While his former heart keeps on ticking in me.

Talking To Candy

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It’s the holiday season, and I am busy as a bee.
I work in a chocolate shop, and there’s no busier time than Christmas.
You’d think it would be Valentine’s Day.
No.
Just before I wrap each of these chocolate-dipped apples and hand-rolled jellies into their packaging, I whisper a message for each to announce as they are unwrapped.
“Your teeth will all rot out,” I say. “You will get fat and then suffer from diabetes.”
Then I close the foil and cellophane over the treat, affix a label, and add it to the completed batch in the shop window.

Santa’s Menorah

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The elves wanted to explore diversity and different cultures, so Santa bought a menorah and lit the candles.
“Aren’t you supposed to sing something?” asked Blitzen.
“Shit if I know,” said Santa. “This writing looks like an army of chocolate-covered ants fucking.”
Santa put all nine candles in, the elves sang Christmas carols, and they all went back to work.
“Do you smell smoke?” said Twinkletoes.
Sure enough, the workshop was on fire.
The flames spread to the reindeer barn, the elf dormitory, and Santa’s house.
“Everybody gets wood burning kits,” declared Santa.
And they all froze their asses off.