Category: My stories

I Don’t Want To Sleep

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I don’t want to sleep.
Things are happening all over the world all the time.
If I sleep, something will happen, and I won’t know about it until I wake up again.
I’ve tried alarms based on news alerts and Google searches, but it’s so hard to find the right rules to use.
I sleep less and less every day, but that just makes me less and less alert when I am awake.
I miss just as much from being drowsy as I do being asleep.
So, I’ll sleep, and the world can go on without me.
Good night, everyone.

Pissed

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Ever gone into the woods to piss on a tree and the tree moves out of your way?
Yeah, you’ve got to be really drunk for that to happen, stumbling around and falling on your ass by the side of the road.
Except this time, I was stone cold sober.
Did I imagine that it had moved?
I walked over to the tree and…
It moved back to its original spot.
“Hello?” I said. “Is anybody there?”
Nobody answered.
I zipped back up and headed back to the car.
It was covered with tree sap.
Damn it!
Where’s my chainsaw?

Shoelaces

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“Your shoelace is untied,” says a voice.
I stop and look back.
Nobody’s there.
I hear this kind of thing all the time. Especially since the accident.
I was always bad about tying my shoelaces when I was little. Sure, I tripped a few times, but I learned to just tuck the laces in.
I liked loose shoes. Nice and relaxed.
So, when one came loose on the railway platform and I tripped over it, I was really surprised.
Train ran over my legs.
Yeah, there’s nobody behind me.
I turn back around and roll my wheelchair to the elevator.

I was a pirate

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I had a dream I was a pirate.
We sailed the seven seas, although I think we may have sailed one sea twice. And that last one may have been a municipal pool.
I’m not that good with maps and charts. And I tend to look down the wrong end of a spyglass. Oh, and I get seasick in the bathtub.
But this is my dream, okay? And I was a pirate in my dream.
I didn’t have a hook for a hand. Or a pegleg. Or even an eyepatch.
Just a pirate, sailing the seven seas of my dreams.

Decadent

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The “Grenouille Congelée” is just an ordinary martini with an ice cube.
And inside that ice cube is a frog.
The ice cube is hollow, giving the frog a little room to move around.
It doesn’t move much. Frogs are cold-blooded and they hibernate at low temperatures, so if it moves at all, it’s going to be a groggy frog.
The cube melts easily.
Once the ice melts, the frog wakes up, and it crawls out of the glass.
An empty glass, usually, but if you’re slow to finish your drink, you may be in for a small green surprise.

Sinterklaas

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We put bandages on the wounds, but you can clearly read “Sinterklaas” in bloody red slashes through the gauze.
The wounds were deep, but not severe enough to kill him.
His breathing was ragged, moans of pain.
“Did you see who did this to you?” I asked the man.
His eyes remained dull and fixed as he coughed through his confession: “I did it to myself.”
He pulled a knife from his boot, dropping the bloody blade on the floor.
“Why?” I asked him.
“I’m bad,” said the man, “and he’s out of coal.”
Be good, little children.
Or else.

Homesick

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Professor Rickhoff pulled down the map and shouted “WE’RE HAVING AN ADVENTURE TODAY!”
The class jumped from their seats and cheered.
“WHERE SHALL WE GO?” shouted the Professor.
The class responded with all sorts of exotic places.
“Home,” said a voice.
“QUIET!” shouted Rickhoff, and the class lay still.
He walked up to the homesick student and stared into her eyes.
“This is your home now,” he said. “When you are here, you are home.”
The student smiled, curled up in a ball on the floor, and went to sleep.
The Professor rolled up the map and dismissed the class.

She, Wired

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They found the girl in the last room, wires running from the console to a halo connector on her forehead.
Her once-white robes were caked with grime and dried blood.
A bony arm reached towards the console, her hand on a large red button.
Pressing… pressing…
Once every second, she tapped that button.
Aside from a dull green glow in her eyes, no other sign of life.
They couldn’t even feel her breathe.
“We need the machine,” said a technician.
“It can wait,” said the administrator. “Let her finish.”
They watched, until the girl finally stopped.
The green glow faded.

Atlas

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When I broke my neck, such marvelous places across the world – the Pyramids, Everest – were lost to me.
My bed was my prison, chained by tubes in my neck. My arm. My gut.
When I didn’t just die, they drugged me less.
The cloud became the wall. A television, always on.
I groaned. “I want to see the world.”
So they brought me tapes of these places.
I explored, demanding more… Washington… Amazon… Museums… Galleries….
I was Atlas, map of the world, roaming mind.
Trapped in my head. On a pillow. In my bed.
But not my prison.
My throne.

Passing The Rose

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In a land without tears, the tearmaster goes from home to home, selling his sadness.
“What good is joy without its opposite?” he tells everyone. “If you cannot feel the deep lows, what will you feel of the highs? Nothing!”
The people stood and stared, confused.
“You cannot feel good without at some point feeling bad!” he shouted.
A child picked up a rock and threw it at the tearmaster, who yelped at the pain.
His hand came away from his forehead bloody.
More townspeople threw rocks. The blood flowed down the tearmaster’s face.
“Are those tears?” asked a child.