Category: My stories

The Talking Sword

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The swordsman tested all the swords in the store, but when he picked up the talking sword, he was greatly impressed.
“I have no equal, no opponent can defeat me,” it said.
The fighter took a few lunges and swings.
Good balance, nice edge.
I like this sword.
He bought it.
Three days later, the swordsman was crawling out of a cave, bloodied and battered, sword in hand.
“They were kobolds, Sword,” he groaned. “I could beat them barehanded.”
“My expertise is in debate, not combat,” said the sword.
It swore as it clattered against the rocks in the cave.

The Dragon Next Door

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My oven is filthy.
It is covered with grime.
But I do not have anything to clean it.
So, I call the dragon who lives next door.
She sticks her head in the window and looks at the oven.
“Disgusting!” she growls.
She takes a deep breath and blows fire all over my kitchen, burning the countertops and toaster and my favorite oven mitts.
“I am so sorry,” she says. “I should have been more careful.”
I hop on her back and we fly to a restaurant, order burgers and shakes, and go hunting for elephants for her to eat.

Dazzleberries and Ookweed

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Grondor admonished his tribe of cave-dwellers: “Lay off the dazzleberries and ookweed.”
He was getting sick and tired of tripping over stoned tribesmen or getting jabbed in the ass with a spear when they’d flip out and hallucinate that he was an elk.
And so, he collected up all the plants he could find, dragged the Firemaker out of his cave, and they set the narcotic bundle aflame.
With a deep sigh of relief, Grondor walked back to the caves.
And saw elk. Dozens of them.
He pulled out his spear and attacked.
His frightened tribe scattered, bleeding and screaming.

2000

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My grandfather owned a wholesale grocery warehouse.
In his office, there was an antique cash register and an adding machine you had to pull the crank to get the numbers out of.
I calculated how old I’d be in the year 2000.
Then I did it for my brother.
And my dad.
And my mother.
When I wanted to do it for my grandfather, he chuckled and said he didn’t think he’d be around for that.
“But, Grampa.”
He was right. Ten years short, seven kinds of cancer ganged up on him.
Nobody knows where that adding machine ended up.

Addict

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I can feel the needle in my arm.
It’s been there for a long time.
I refuse to look at it.
I should take it out, I tell myself.
I can’t remember putting it in.
Did I put it in? Did someone else?
I can’t remember.
What if I take it out for a minute, to prove I can.
Will I be able to put it back in?
I’d better leave it there. It’s there for a reason.
I can’t remember why, but it should stay there.
So I look, and… it’s not there anymore.
I scream GIVE IT BACK!

Seasick

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I don’t like boats.
I get horribly seasick.
I’ve tried drugs, but those seasickness drugs make me even sicker.
So, I stay off of boats.
Recently, I was diagnosed with cancer.
The chemotherapy made me really sick.
So they gave me anti-nausea drugs.
When the treatment was over and the doctors told me they couldn’t do anything else, I didn’t know what to do.
So I got on a boat.
And I felt fine.
“Give me more of those pills,” I said. “Enough to last me.”
So they did. Thirty yellow pills.
And I’ve been on the water ever since.

Catquake

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I am sitting on a sofa, next to a sleeping cat.
He is purring in his sleep.
I watch his whiskers twitch, his toes wriggle.
He is dreaming.
What is he dreaming of? Walking through grass? Laying in the sun?
He’s twitching more. Maybe he’s running?
If he told me, I’d keep his secret.
But he never does.
A secret never told is a secret kept.
His fur ripples, his paws padding the air.
His whole body is writhing, orange stripes like waves.
And then, he wakes up with a meow.
Licks a paw, and drifts off to sleep again.

Halloween and Black Cats

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This is my first Halloween owning a black cat.
Two of them, actually.
They’re indoor-outdoor cats, and they don’t like being cooped up.
But letting them out on Halloween, well, I’ve heard stories.
Bad stories.
Teenagers killing them and mutilating them and setting them on fire and leaving the corpses on doorsteps.
No, I’d rather that not happen to these cats.
So, they’re staying inside.
The orange cat, well, he can go outside all he wants.
The black cats look out the window and whine. On the other side, the orange cat flicks his tail proudly and goes off hunting.

House Call

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I don’t feel well. I’ve been pretty sick recently.
Doctors did some tests. Then they did more tests.
“You have cancer,” they finally said. “Real bad.”
No treatment will do any good.
So, I went home, took the phone off the hook, and got drunk.
Stayed drunk for three weeks.
I get a knock on the door. It’s a doctor. Says he’s been trying to call me.
He has a drug now. Nanobots. Kills the cancer.
“So, I’ll live?” I ask. He gives me the injection.
“No,” he says. “This’ll kill you too. We just need your organs for transplant.”

The Possible Pelicans

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The zoo pays me well enough.
What’s my job? I feed the lions during the day and bless the pelicans every night.
The rest of the time, I stand and smile.
Sometimes, I wave.
I do this seven days a week, every day of the year.
People ask me things and I tell them that’s interesting.
The bosses give me babies to feed the lions, and I toss them into their habitat.
Then I stand and smile to keep from screaming.
I drink vodka. Constantly.
I bless the pelicans, thinking they’re penguins. Just pink.
Or are those flamingos?
Or babies?