Category: My stories

The Forgotten Birthday

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When a school is named after someone famous, the staff usually goads the students into some kind of birthday celebration to commemorate all the things that person did for society.
However, when that birthday falls on a holiday like Christmas or comes up during the summertime, it usually passes unobserved.
Not on my watch.
When I was named principal of this school, I took on a sacred oath.
Yes, he was born on the Fourth of July. Fireworks, right?
Wrong. The city hosts the fireworks display elsewhere.
I will do them here, at Yankee Doodle Dandy Elementary, do or die.

Losing Faith

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His Holiness woke up after surgery to find himself watched by his assistant.
“We prayed for your recovery,” said his secretary. “We are delighted that The Lord has seen fit to deliver you back to us.”
The Pope raised an eyebrow. “It was the doctors, not The Lord,” he said tersely.
The assistant left the room to speak to the lead surgeon. “I fear you cut too deep,” he said.
The surgeon agreed. “That region of the brain is strongly tied to Faith. Damage can result in this behavior.”
“Or death,” suggested the assistant. “Make it painless and quick, please.”

Bigfoot

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Deep in the woods, Bigfoot sits on a rock and stares at his humongous feet.
Exhausted from the constant chase by photographers and scientists, he pondered the meaning of life.
“Pedicure,” he growls.
A branch snaps.
Bigfoot crawls under a fallen tree trunk.
The leaves rustle, and then a deer approaches.
Bigfoot sighs. Is he paranoid? Is everything a potential threat now?
“Zoloft,” he grumbles.
He shakes dandruff from his fur, ponders using a sharp rock to shave it off, join a circus as a giant, or play basketball.
Do they make shoes his size?
Another branch snaps.
He hides.

The Returning Snow

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I watch the weather reports.
The first snow will be coming.
I doesn’t tempt me, though. That first snow never lasts.
I’ll wait for when the snow builds up and doesn’t just melt away the next day.
There’s no sport in the bodies showing up so quickly. No challenge.
I’ll wait.
In the meantime, I’ll check the engine in the snowblower and check the oil.
I’ll wipe down the walls in the basement again.
Last year was a light year, certainly, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less messy down there.
It’s the least I can do for my guests.

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.”