Category: My stories

Dunk

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Ever since the Chicago Bears dumped a Gatorade jug over Mike Ditka’s head to celebrate their first championship since 1963, it’s been a tradition in football to upend your sports performance drink over your coach to celebrate a victory.
Every so often, a joker will fill the jug with ice so it’s a really cold shower for the winning coach.
It was a cold game in Green Bay that brought on a new twist: a trainer had provided an extra jug of hot chicken soup to warm players during the bone-chilling subzero chill.
The coach was not screaming in joy.

Cloak And Dagger

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All she wore was a cloak and a dagger.
And nothing else.
The CIA Recruiting Officer shook his head and pointed at the door.
“What’s wrong?” the rejected candidate said with a whine.
“It’s not literally cloak-and-dagger,” said the officer. “It’s just a saying.”
“Fine,” she said. She put down the dagger and took off the cloak. “What kind of job can I get with this?”
The officer checked a telephone directory and dialed.
After a few minutes, he smiled and unfolded a map.
“The White House is marked with a red X,” he said. “Ask for Bill. Good luck.”

The Butterfly

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I told Lucy not to get a tattoo, but she did.
It’s a pink butterfly on her ankle.
Sometimes, it is on her right ankle. Other times, her left.
I’ve watched her sleep and the butterfly flapping around her bedroom.
When she wakes up, it lands and melts into her skin.
Today, it’s on her wrist.
“I’m thinking about getting another,” she says.
I told her not to, but she did.
Another butterfly. Blue this time.
They fly together at night, circling.
I rub my arm, where the flaming skull once was.
Sure, laser-removal surgery worked.
But it still burns.

Victory Square

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No more bombers.
Silence.
We walk to the center of town, stepping over bodies and fallen streetlamps.
Collapsed buildings line the path.
More bodies in the park, trees with shattered leaves.
“Victory Square” says a monument, half of a horse.
Where is the rest of it? Where is the rider?
“Centaur,” says my guide. “Nikos The Wise.”
He tries to tell me the story of the centaur, but it’s just gibberish.
We’ve come across no other survivors.
So I pull out my pistol, shoot him, and then call headquarters on my radio.
“Total victory,” I say. “Bring in the transports.”

The Lighter

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Down in the dungeon, the witch stirs up a boiling cauldron full of jokes
“We stir to keep the lighter jokes from floating to the top and staying there,” says Hildegard the Wicked. “Only when the jokes are finished do we skim them from the top.”
I’ve asked her what she puts in the pot to make the jokes, but she never reveals her secret.
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Just drink the potions I give you and be happy with it.”
Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t be happy with it.
Funny, yes. But not happy.

Poetry and Coffee

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She asks me which I would rather have: good poetry and bad coffee, or bad poetry and good coffee.
“Why not good poetry and good coffee?” I ask. “Can’t you do both?”
It turns out, not only is she the waitress but she’s also a poet. “I don’t have time for both,” she says. “I can either concentrate on the coffee or write really good poetry.”
“Coffee,” I say.
“But this coffee will last only an hour or so,” she says. “My poetry will last for generations, long after I’m dead.”
I shrug. “I guess they won’t tip you either.”

Under Observation

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We watch everything you do.
We listen to everything you say.
We read everything you write.
We know everywhere you go.
And after all this time, we’ve come to the simple conclusion that you’re the most boring person on Earth.
You don’t do anything interesting at all. We haven’t filed a single report on you in all the time you’ve been under observation.
You’re an easy assignment. Boring, but easy.
So we’re just going to ignore the fact that you’re dead and just keep filing the same reports over and over.
You won’t mind.
Because you’re dead.
That’s… our secret.

The Itch

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Two more days.
They warned me not to scratch it.
“If that poison touches the air, it’ll change,” said the nurse. “Your body can fight it on its own if it’s inside, but if you scratch it, you’ll get worse.”
They can’t give me anything for the pain.
“It’ll react with the poison, too,” said the nurse. “Nasty stuff.”
My hands are tied to the bed rails. I’ve dislocated my shoulder again in the past hour.
“MAKE IT STOP!” I scream.
The door is closed, the walls are padded.
The nurse smiles. “Be good, or we’ll inject you with more.”

Under

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This morning, I found a tarp on my lawn.
I want to peek under it, but who knows what’s under it.
Tarps cover things you don’t want to look at.
I can’t tell what’s under there by the bulge in the tarp.
And every time I look, I swear it’s changed shape.
Maybe someone will take it if I just go back to my routine.
So, I drag out the trash cans and check the mailbox.
Everybody’s mailbox is empty.
“Maybe the mailman is under that tarp?” my neighbor asks.
We sit around and wait.
Nobody looks. We just wait.

The Thief

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The thief breaks into your house and steals your dreams while you sleep.
He puts them in a burlap sack and tiptoes through the night.
The fence looks through the sack of dreams.
“Second-rate pipedreams here,” he says.
He always says they’re second-rate to get the price down.
“This one’s shattered,” he says, pointing out the pieces in the bottom of the sack.
They agree on fifty bucks.
The thief doesn’t know what the fence does with the dreams. He’s heard of some guy named Sandman.
The thief doesn’t care. He just steals and sells them.
And dreams of retiring.