Category: My stories

There will be peace when the Gnomes love their children more than they hate us

639228

In the nursery, we keep it simple: babies coming in equals babies going out.
Come up short, and security checks the tapes before “Stolen Baby” makes the evening news.
But when we come up with extra, that’s worse.
“Damn those Gnomes,” said Nurse Riley. “They sneak their agents into nurseries to infiltrate our species.”
This giggling, squirming lump in a standard-issue diaper is no child.
Riley pointed out the beard-stubble and bright red shaving rash.
The look in her eyes: sadness and horror.
I signed the authorization. Quarantine, then furnace termination.
They don’t scream, even while burning.
Damn this war.

Skin Contract

639163

Awake at 4. Itching, scratching.
The rashes are unbearable.
One more week until my skin contract’s up.
The free ones are nothing compared to expensive designer skins, but with the contract, you get a discount on those.
I look in the mirror. Hideous bags under my eyes, wrinkles like canyons across my face.
And rashes.
Last time, I cheaped out. Ever since, it’s been dermatologist appointments and oceans of cosmetics.
Yak butter creams? Tungsten wire therapy?
I won’t make that mistake again.
I put on my happy-face, the porcelain doll-mask with the vacant, vapid stare, and head to the kitchen.

Belt

639154

I could not find my leather belt this morning.
It was not where I had left it – wrapped around my neck.
My belt is usually on yesterday’s pants, but I didn’t wear pants yesterday. So I wrapped it around my neck and went to sleep.
When I woke up, it was gone.
I only own one belt. It’s a black belt, so it goes with everything.
Maybe I will go buy another belt? I should buy two, but in all my life, I only own one belt at a time.
Because I only have one neck to wrap it around.

Sandpaper Carpet

639159

We ripped up the carpet and put down sandpaper.
It’s easy to vacuum now. And I get great traction.
It’s a weird feeling to walk across it with my bare feet. It’s kind of like walking on the beach.
The worst part is when I spill something on it. What a mess.
The cat hates it. She leaps across the seats and tables, runs across the sofa and uses the bookshelves to get to the tile floor in the kitchen.
Anything to avoid the sandpaper.
If the cat could climb across the ceiling with her claws, she would.
Silly cat.

Perfect Potatoes

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The potatoes are perfect?
Good. I’m glad you like them.
You know, I always kept things in the oven just a little too long.
So, I had the temperature turned down just little on the oven.
Things turn out just right now.
I could have just set the timer a little quicker, but I’m such a stickler for time.
Fifteen minutes is fifteen minutes. You can measure it with a clock or by counting.
But temperature? Can you really tell the difference between three hundred and fifty degrees and three hundred and forty degrees?
Thought so.
So, want more potatoes?

The Forest Of Fourteen Trees

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Once upon a time, this was a vast forest, with trees as far as the eye could see.
Now, there are only fourteen trees, crowded together in a housing subdivision.
We, the elves of the forest, once frolicked and hunted.
Now, we argue over pizza toppings and order delivery.
It’s not easy, clinging to the past when the future has clearly defeated it, but we are forest elves, and we can no more abandon them as a fish can leave the water.
The government calls us an endangered species, but the gnomes were, too.
They’re gone now, and soon, us.

Stuffed

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It’s just a simple fact of life:
You can stuff a chicken.
You can stuff a bra.
You can stuff a bra in a chicken.
You can stuff a chicken in a bra.
Those awful cookbooks and fashion magazines – I blame them for this madness among our children!
It’s unhealthy! It’s unsanitary! It’s unamerican!
It used to be you’d just see this on the news from savage places like Belugastan or the North Indies.
Now, you see it all over the mall. These damn crazy kids with their tattoos, piercings, and poultry-filled undergarments!
The world has gone to Hell.

Old School

639160

We’re at the bar, watching the ball drop in Times Square.
“I still write last year on my checks,” I say. “I always do stupid shit like that. What about you?”
She puts her drink down. “You still write checks?” she asks. “No online bill payment?”
“I like the feel of writing a check,” I said. “Pointing and clicking doesn’t feel the same.”
“What about using credit cards?”
“Nope. I’m really, really old school.”
She laughed, signed for her tab, and left.
I asked for my tab.
“Two chickens, Bill,” said the bartender.
I handed over the cage.
Old school.

Old Men

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Two old fishermen sat on the dock, the bucket sitting between them.
They’ve been there for years, fishing every day.
The first old man catches a fish, and then, he lets it go free.
Then the other old man catches it and lets it go free.
Back and forth, that fish got caught over and over.
He liked the taste of the bait that much.
And the two old fishermen hated the taste of fish.
“Caught that same damn fish again?” said the first old man.
“Yup,” said the other.
They dropped their poles and left the dock for home.

Tie You Up In Knots

639169

I know my knots. I know every knot.
Though I may be old and blind, you can give me any rope and I can put any knot in it that you want me to put in it.
Hand me a rope with a knot in it, and I can tell you what kind it is in ten seconds.
This rope around my ankles, I know.
Same with the rope around my wrists.
The one around my neck is another matter, though. Give me a minute on that.
Pull on them all you want – all my secrets will die with me.