Category: My stories

The Future

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Even though security is almost completely done by biometrics, we still call it “handing over the keys” when you buy a car.
The dealer syncs your vehicle’s scanner with your retinal pattern, thumb print, voice print, and everything else that identifies your biological uniqueness.
No keys at all. The strip of metal with the logo on the keychain is just symbolic.
We also still call them cars, even though they’re not much more than automated floating bubbles these days.
I step into the bubble, wave my hand, and I’m off.
Yes, we still call it driving when it’s really riding.

Schnauzer

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I have a giant Schnauzer.
That’s giant with a small G. Not a big G.
He’s not a Giant Schnauzer breed. He’s a giant Schnauzer.
One hundred feet tall.
He’s still growing, too. He’s been growing ever since I got him as a puppy.
What do I feed him? Just the usual dog food.
Lots of it. The manufacturer gives me the stuff for free.
They get to put my Schnauzer on the bag and in the commercials.
He doesn’t know any tricks. Or know his name.
So I gave up, and I just call him Schnauzer.
My giant Schnauzer.

The Salad Races

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We both order club salads and watch the lady behind the counter pull out two metal bowls.
The race is on.
She grabs twice the usual amount of ingredients each time, dividing them between the bowls.
Lettuce, chopped ham, eggs…
It was neck and neck until it was time for the dressing.
“One scoop or two?”
We both said one. Two would slow us down.
She mixes things up, scraping the bowls loudly with the salad tongs.
Bowls are poured into plastic clamshells.
And I get the first.
Victory!
I celebrate with a lap around the restaurant and leave.

Apartment Circus

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I couldn’t stand to see the carnival rust in the junkyard, so I bought it.
How you fit all that into a two bedroom apartment in Manhattan, well, that’s my secret.
Kids line up at my door, and I sell tickets to the rides, the midway games, and the various tent acts.
At first, the Condo Association protested, but now they’re all in the show: the fat lady in 5H, the super’s a sword swallower, and 16A tells fortunes.
It’s a good crowd tonight.
I adjust my nose, check my floppy shoes, and lead the clowns into the center ring.

Like a bar of soap

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Travel to Insect Worlds requires Sleep.
Cory leaves her robe on a hook and lays down in the tub.
Five injections: her arms, her legs, and her heart.
Her skin turns pale.
Eyes closed, the monitor shows her slowing down for the sleep.
Muscles contract, her body tucks into a fetal position.
Pour in the electrogel.
One spark, and the gel turns white and solid. Like a bar of soap.
We slide it into the ship’s cargo hold.
Only the Insects can reverse the process. Nobody ever returns.
After all, it’s rude to send back your dinner to the kitchen.

Munge’s Menagerie

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Through an error in programming, Professor Munge created a robot that could read, but was incapable of writing or expressing words in audio form.
Over the course of a year, Munge’s lab produced a series of mechanical oddities, such as robots without ocular sensors but powerful image processing and analysis capabilities, or the exploration robot with a single articulated limb with which the robot could barely drag its bulk around a pen surrounded by rails.
Students would come by to gawk at the cruel menagerie, some laughing, but others worried. Or weeping.
“Compassion,” said Munge. “Cannot be taught. Or built.”

Burning Hands

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Both of my hands are wrapped in bandages.
I don’t know why I held them over the fire.
It didn’t hurt at first. Then, it hurt. A lot.
The skin and nerves are gone from what muscle and bone remains.
I can’t tell how many fingers I have left. The bandages keep me from seeing them.
When they change the bandages, they won’t let me see.
“You do not want to see them yet,” the nurse says.
She puts another pill in my mouth, holds up a cup with a straw, and says everything will be fine.
And I sleep.

The Retarded Twins

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Julie and Judy were indistinguishable from each other for 80 years.
Usually, you can tell twins apart, but these two were exactly alike.
Including their mental retardation. So severe, their father walked out when they were 5 and their mother dead from suicide on their 10th birthday.
They were dressed in the same clothes, played with the same toys, and babbled the same babble.
They spent their lives in institutions together until one died.
Nobody knew which one, so they tossed a coin, declared Judy dead, and life went on as normal, or what passes for it for a retard.

Piano Bar

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The kids were hungry, so I said “Let’s go to McDonalds.”
They screamed “No!”
Sounds weird, right? Kids not wanting to go to McDonalds?
Well, it makes a lot more sense when I mention: our McDonalds has a piano bar.
Three hours later, the kids are asleep in the ball pit and I’m blasted out of my mind as all the soccermoms and single dads are singing whatever the guy on the bench is playing.
A guy in a Grimmace costume asks me if I need a cab.
“Just a light,” I say, cigarette in hand.
The kids scream louder.

The Silver Star

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When I was a child, my sister and I had to do our chores.
Each chore meant we got to lick a star and stick it to the calendar for that day.
Red ones were little chores, like doing the dishes.
Blue ones meant more, like vacuuming or walking the dog.
Silver stars were for mowing the lawn.
At the end of the week, add up the stars and get an allowance.
I went to the crafts store and bought a box of silver stars, filling the calendar with them.
The stars added up to me getting spanked and grounded.