Category: My stories

The Magic Pants

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Miss Kathy reaches into her pockets and pulls out five bucks. “My pants,” she says, “are magical.”
Sure enough, any time she needs something, all she has to do is reach into her pocket.
She always pulls out what she needs, when she needs it.
Ketchup packets, keys, a spare cell phone battery, money – especially money.
She’s been tempted to tear them apart to see where the stuff comes from, but she doesn’t want to kill the magic pants like the golden goose.
Besides, they fit really good, and that’s truly magical when it comes to a pair of pants.

Bleachers

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I live under the bleachers.
They store the concession stands under here when the season’s over.
Of all the stands, I wouldn’t choose it, but it’s what I’ve got, and I’m happy for that.
I shower in the locker rooms, get food in the cafeteria.
At night, stray dogs roam around, looking for food.
I keep the stand closed and shuttered.
They paw at the door, even though there’s no food in here.
Besides me, I guess.
I could go home, but I kinda like it here under the bleachers.
And the students always know where to find the principal.

Like A Cat

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Sometimes, life is like trying to find a black cat outside in the dark.
You wander around, looking everywhere, poking through all the bushes and looking under tables.
Bang a can of cat food with a fork a few times. Call out its name and whistle and meow.
Nothing.
And now, the neighbors think you’ve gone crazy.
All the while, it’s looking down at you from the fence, eyes glowing bright in the night.
You give up, turn out the porch light, and head back inside.
Life’s right there, sitting in your chair. And won’t budge.
Yeah. Just like that.

Just A Taste

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Leslie is always asking for a taste of what I’m eating or drinking.
With one massive bite or gulp, she hands back an empty plate or glass.
“Delicious,” he moans. “Thank you.”
If she asks you for something, give it to her.
Don’t just stick it in her face for her to bite or sip while you’re still holding on to it.
You could lose a finger.. a hand… even an arm if she’s hungry.
Her last boyfriend learned that lesson the hard way.
He had a strawberry in his mouth, offered it with a kiss, and lost his head.

Measure

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They say Helen Thomas has been in the White House Press Corps for the past 9 presidents, but measuring things in terms of presidents is a horrible idea.
How often do you have presidents around.
“Hey, someone wake the president… we need to measure this piece of string.”
They did that back in Ancient Egypt. A cubit was the length of pharaoh’s arm.
Every five minutes, someone asking him “stick out your arm!” Like he’s a common junkie.
Got a house to build, gotta measure out the two by fours.
No wonder why he buried himself under tons of rock.

No Gloves

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She covers her whole face with a mask, even though it’s just the left side that has the worst of the scars.
“Symmetry,” she growls.
She changes masks throughout the day, some smiling, some angry, some expressionless… just a white shaped piece of ceramic with two holes for eyes.
The left eye is fine, but the right one is different.
Bloodshot. Dilated.
“I see better with it than with the other,” she says, and she goes back to painting.
She wears the mask, but not gloves.
The brush in the blackened claw of her right hand dashes along the canvas.

The Key

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Every morning, the windup girl feels the turning of the key in her back.
She awakens, opens her eyes.
“Mistress,” she says, and smiles.
Mistress strokes her cheek, says the nicest things.
And, her eyes are… red?
She’s been crying again.
Windup girl wants to cry too, but she cannot.
“Mistress,” she says, “Need a hug?”
Mistress wants more, and soon, the windup girl’s clothes sit folded on the edge of the bed with Mistress’s.
“Fuck me,” she whispers.
Windup girl pulls out her key, places it on Mistress’s thigh.
Mistress smiles as windup girl’s eyes grow heavy and close.

Earthquake

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Something smells good.
Is Alvin in the kitchen?
Is he making hamburgers?
He makes great hamburgers.
What’s that rumbling? Why is everything shaking?
Earthquake?
I ran for a doorway to brace myself.
Alvin didn’t stop making hamburgers in the kitchen.
Once you get Alvin started on something, it’s impossible to make him stop before he’s done.
The rumbling stops and everything stops shaking.
A few glasses have broken, some things have fallen off of shelves and popped off the walls.
Nothing important.
The hamburgers are almost ready.
I should set the table.
With paper plates and cups.
You know. Aftershocks.

The Code

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They talked in code, a quiet series of taps and gentle coughs that went undetected by the teacher.
Questions… answers… who’s kissing… who’s not seeing each other anymore…
Every year, they change the code so that teachers can’t decode their messages.
Out on the playground, Seniors teaching the pre-schoolers the basics… cough… tap… a click of the tongue…fingernail tap… fingertip tap…
Every so often, a new signal is added, like tapping a wristwatch. Or an archaic one is removed, like the sliderule swish.
At reunions, conversation is polite.
But the code?
She’s twice divorced… he’s so fat…
Oh, so brutal!

Vista

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The videos of Al-Qaeda training in Afghanistan – firing guns, running obstacle courses, and all that running – you never saw them with laptops, programming and coding, did you?
Those guys got H1 visas and headed to Seattle, where they were greeted by Microsoft.
“We’ve got housing ready for you,” said a blonde in a suit. “Just sign the NDAs on top of your welcome packets and we’ll head down to Redmond.”
Each programmer signed their forms, praised Allah, and looked forward to the day when their latest weapon against the Western infidels would be unleashed.
“Vista,” Osama had told them, grinning.