Category: My stories

Mr. Twelve

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On either end of the table, Mister Midnight sat.
One was a man in a cloak with a silver hourglass.
The other wore a zoot guit, tapping a silver cane.
Neither worked with The League Of Heroes, so they weren’t on the registry that prevents these situations.
Their lawyers drafted up an agreement, trying to avoid a embarrassing superhero fight.
“What if neither of you were Mister Midnight?” they suggested. “You be The Dark Hourglass, and you’re After Hours.”
The heroes thought, smiled, and shook hands.
The lawyers got the papers signed and returned to The League of Evil headquarters.

Imperfection

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Try as you might, perfection never lasts.
The moment you come close to perfection, the imperfections stand out in contrast so clearly.
That makes it easier to find and remove them, and makes the remaining imperfections stand out even more clearly.
The knife is steady, but the flesh resists. One final flaw, and this girl will be the pinnacle of existence.
I put the knife down. I will not cut.
No, there will be no scar. I don’t need lasers like others do, but my work is always perfect.
Perfection, averted twice, laughs and hides in the shadows once again.

The Candy Prince

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The Candy Price sits on his chocolate bunny, watching the troops walk past.
His lemondrop eyes glisten in admiration of his army.
“March, my men!” he cheers, and the army raises a shout.
A gumdrop button falls from his Marzipan coat. He has been outside for too long today.
He returns to his palace, inspecting his frosting hair in the mirror.
“I am coming apart!” he cries to his butler. “Help me!”
He tries to change suits, but feels something snap.
The chef-surgeon arrives, but shakes his head.
“So, how do you feel about being The Candy Princess?” he offers.

Crime In E Minor

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The detective looks at the body and says “Round up every violinist.”
He is holding a smashed instrument, and his conclusions would be sound if he were correct about one thing: that is a viola, not a violin.
They dust it for fingerprints… none at all.
I wore gloves, you see.
Yes, it was me, dear reader. I am the murderer.
And that is my viola.
The violinists come in, one after the other, but each has an alibi.
It is a year later, he is no closer to solving the case.
Good.
Because my new viola thirsts for blood.

Unmaking Plans

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We spent our lives together, always making plans.
We planned to have children, but never did.
We planned a trip around the world, but we never left the village more than a few days.
We planned to build a gazebo and a bridge across the creek, but when you look out back, you see nothing but grass, trees, and water.
For years, we made plans like these.
I sit here, by her bedside, waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
They will arrive too late.
“What shall I do?” I asked last night.
“Enough of plans,” she said. “Just do whatever.”

The Infernal Tune

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It was said that Beethoven composed a melody so powerful, it could summon The Devil.
He never wrote it down, and never played it with anyone nearby.
Except his nephew Karl.
Perhaps this is why he fought to keep custody of Karl, to prevent him from revealing this secret?
Or maybe Karl attempted suicide after seeing his uncle plead with The Prince Of Darkness for his hearing back?
His doctor prescribed treatments containing lead to block out the infernal influences, sending the composer into painful and confusing fits.
Karl whispers, “The piano is out of tune. Does Satan listen now?”

Cough And Dagger

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The Dark Days are here.
I see their faces in the shadows, handing cough drops to each other.
There’s something in them. I just know there is.
No, I don’t know what it is. They won’t let me in the lab anymore.
I hear whispers: “Keep them medicated, keep them under control.”
I am offered the coughdrops at every corner, and I palm them to fool the others.
But now, their eyes are starting to glow green.
I can’t fake that, so I’m fleeing the city.
And then… I cough a single cough.
They hear it, growling, and I run.

The Monkey Dance

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For ten years, Dinko Dogan and his monkey entertained the streets of Rousse.
At night, they swam in the Danube, Dinko singing and the monkey hunting fish.
“The fish are bad,” said the rivermaster. “The poison from the factories is in them.”
Dinko laughed. The monkey laughed with him. “Come for a swim, my friend!” he sang.
When the coughing and bleeding sores were too painful to ignore, Dinko ended his nightly swims.
The price of bananas was so high, but the fruitwagoneer said the monkey brought customers and gave them for free.
Dinko sang, and the monkey danced on.

Tell Me A Story

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“Tell me a story,” says the ghost in my bed.
I’m used to it.
So, I pull a book from the shelf, open the pages, and begin to read.
“I’ve heard this before,” says the ghost.
The ghost has heard them all.
I close the book and make up a story about dragons, castles, maidens, and knights.
But this time, the maidens ate dragons and the castles floated in the air.
“What about the knights?” asked the ghost.
“They lived happily ever after,” I said.
The ghost smiled, faded into nothing, and I was finally able to go to sleep.

The Waxlings

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Come here, Waxlings.
The sun is too bright. Our world is melting.
The great mountains of the west are hills now, flowing in all directions.
The oceans are too hot to live near. Our great bridges have fallen and turned to goo.
As has nearly everything else.
Our only solace is that we are of stronger waxes. We sweat and drip, but maintain our lives by eating and finding what little shelter that remains.
One day, the heat will be too great even for us, and we will melt into the core.
Forgive me, my children, but you are delicious.