Category: My stories

The Lenses

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At the rank of Mage Ultimor, the wizard will grind a Diabolical Lens.
Infused with ancient spells, this looking-glass deciphers messages from The Beyond.
The messages are often mundane, but occasionally an interesting and useful command makes it through the torrent.
Most mages grow bored with the filtering process. Others remain at their scrying table, peering into the hazy glass circle, lips trembling.
When he was an apprentice, his duty was to smash his master’s lens.
Voltmaster never took on an apprentice, so he never escaped the lure of the lens.
Surging with power, his eyes glow with distant rage.

Pickles

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Know what the worst thing about getting old?
I hate going bald.
Yeah, I used to have so much hair, but now. all my hair is falling out.
Some guys cover up with hats, and others shave their heads and go totally bald.
Me, I like to cover my head with sliced pickles.
How do I keep them on my head?
Well, the mustard acts like glue.
A few fall off during the day, but I keep a jar with me.
And in a real emergency, I can buy a hamburger and ask for extra pickles.
Lots of extra pickles.

Eighties

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The club is dead on Wednesdays, so I picked a theme and bought a few ads.
One after the other, these old people started to wander into the club, using walkers and canes.
A few had powered scooters. I had to move the tables further apart to handle those.
One woman with an oxygen tank and a white beehive wig complains about the music.
“What’s with this rock and roll crap?” she says.
“It’s Eighties Music,” I say. “Duran Duran. Flock of Seagulls. Van Halen”
You know, Eighties Night.
Oh. Right.
I switch to Benny Goodman for the happy geezers.

Fifteen Seconds

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Once you hear sirens, you have fifteen seconds to seek shelter.
Will the rocket land in the fields?
Will the rocket land in a school?
Will the rocket land in the streets?
Will the rocket land on you?
The shelter is across the street, you can get there quickly, but a child is standing there on the sidewalk, crying.
Run for the shelter now? Or cover the child with your body and close your eyes?
We watch the images on the television, and so many of us judge.
What would YOU do to protect that child from the deadly rain?

Errors

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The error messages this system spits out are frustrating.
They are just a bunch of meaningless code.
“Can I get some meaningful error message that tells me what I did wrong?” I ask.
The developers say no. They are too busy getting rid of the bugs that cause the errors.
“In the meantime, I’d like to know what the errors mean.”
They shake their heads.
“How about some error messages that are even more meaningless, filled with profanity and racial epithets?”
The developers think I’m being silly.
So I grab one by the throat and give him a few examples.

His Number Came Up

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He was not a number, but his number did finally come up.
The old actor died last night.
His greatest performance was over forty years ago. He had full control over the production, and he put everything into it.
I’m watching it now, episode after episode of The Prisoner, and despite so many things changing since then socially and technologically, the themes of paranoia, distrust, and the human spirit of individuality still shine through.
There’s a remake of the series in the works, but I won’t watch it.
There’s no improving on perfection, I say, and I hit Play again.

Foldspace

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Edgar needs to go to Phoenix.
He pulls out his world map, makes a few folds, and he’s now just a few minutes walk from Phoenix.
“Relative Foldspace” he calls it, in between cigarettes.
I call it Voodoo.
“It doesn’t hurt anybody,” he says. “It just folds my relative space.”
He smokes another, ashes fall on the map.
Brushes them off. “Thought it would set the world on fire?”
With a shout, he tears the map in half.
I recover from my fainting spell to the sound of Edgar laughing. “It’s just a focus. It ain’t the world.”
Is it?

Never

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We all stared at the turtle in its terrarium.
They named it Never.
“What kind of name is Never?” I asked.
The twins both shrugged at the same time.
They did that kind of thing, shrugging and smiling and sneezing together.
And they were always in agreement.
Even if it was something weird, like naming their pet turtle “Never.”
“I still don’t understand why you two wanted a turtle,” I said. “Why not a dog or a cat?”
And they shrugged again.
Sure, they’re my kids. I love them.
But it can be really, really creepy when they do this.

Poison Banquet

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The guards aren’t allowed to beat us anymore, but they still torture us.
They have a chef cook feasts for them. The air ducts are arranged to blanket the jail with the kitchen smells:
Fresh baked bread.
Deep, rich gumbo.
Buttery, roasted corn.
So good!
Then they slide trays with the usual, horrible slop under the bars.
The chef is one of us. Did twenty years for putting a knife in a man trying to rob his restaurant.
They beat him bad too many times, so he’s adding his extra special ingredient tonight.
“Poison never tasted so good,” he chuckles.

Sturgiss

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We followed Sturgiss the Necromancer, that demon graverobber criminal!
His destination? The accursed Voltmaster.
His watchtower rises from a clearing in Gloomwood.
We goblins know to give this abomination of stone a wide berth.
On the roof, Sturgiss arranges steel rods.
Clouds, ready for harvest.
I shout to the sky: “We demand the return of Lord Grondol’s body!”
Sturgiss screams his response: “You may fight the jackals for Grondol’s unused remains.”
Inside, Voltmaster throws a switch. The tower explodes with light and power.
“This is just trickery!” I shout, but my goblin soldiers run.
Grondol, your desecration is my dishonor.