Category: My stories

Willy Lied

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Willy Wonka said that they’d come away unchanged and unharmed, but just a little wiser.
Willy lied.
The fat kid drowned in the fudge vats. They didn’t bother scooping him out. Choppy-chop!
The gum-chewer exploded into blueberry goo in the hallway. Fucking gross!
The greedy bitch was crisped in a furnace, followed by her father. Good riddance to them both.
The TV kid survived. But he was only four inches tall. That makes it hard to treat for radiation sickness.
By the time they buried little Mike Teevee in a shoebox, Charlie and his family were moving into the factory.

Confession

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Confession is good for the soul.
And for the community, too.
Every few nights, Max shows up with a bag of cash.
It scares me to think what he’s done to his wife and daughters this time.
Over the years, we’ve renovated the church with that money. Put in a community center. Added computers, tutors for homework.
Last night, soaked with blood, all torn up. Hands me a briefcase.
“Make it last,” he says. “You’ll never see me again.”
I don’t even listen. I just put it in the bank, and watch the news as they bring the bodies out.

Mailed It

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When you can’t be there for someone, sometimes you do the best you can with what you have.
This wasn’t much comfort to Sarah, but she didn’t feel like wasting time complaining or getting angry over something she couldn’t change.
She kissed the slip of paper, put it in an envelope, and mailed it to her one true love.
The mailman took it for himself and hid it away in a desk, bringing it out every so often when he felt sad and lonely.
A coworker discovered the letter and showed it to their boss.
He growled and mailed it.

Ask A Grampa

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All the ATMs are gone.
These days, whenever you need money, just ask a Grampa for it.
He”ll pull out his roll of bills, licks his thumb, and gives you one last look before he peels off what you need.
Need to deposit your cash? Just give it to a Grampa, and it goes right in his pocket.
There”s always a Grampa around when you need one.
Little, fuzzy-eared wrinkled old men, puttering around, smiling wide, enjoying the beautiful weather.
Nobody would ever think to rob a Grampa. After all, he”s our Grampa!
We love Grampa, and he loves us.

Mark Brown

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Mark Brown. Spoiled rotten rich kid.
The worst bully in the entire school.
He pushed kids down the stairs.
Nobody ever stopped him.
One day, he tried to push me down the stairs.
But I saw him coming and ducked to the side.
Mark lost his balance and fell, tumbling down.
Crack… he broke his neck.
Laying there in the hospital bed, he tries to apologize to me.
“Say it like you mean it, Mark,” I say.
He’s crying, looking at the ventilator hose.
My hand, crimping it shut.
“Cry for me,” I say.
There’s a new bully in town.

She Wore Angry

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There’s some kinds of hate that wash off like dirt in the shower, and there’s others that go deep that you can’t dig it out without killing the wounded heart it’s wrapped around.
She wore Angry like a mask and Vengeance as a necklace, barbed wire around her ankle while she hunted us down one by one.
We knew she was coming for us. Like a force of nature, there wasn’t a damn thing we could do but dig deeper and pray she passed overhead.
Someone calls you. Your phone’s set to vibrate, but it rattles loud.
Did she hear?

Exile

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Forget cruises or eco-hikes.
This summer, going into exile is all the rage.
A good travel agent can put the whole package together.
A military coup.
The Swiss bank accounts.
That midnight flight to… where?
Well, whatever country will take you. Bribes and allies go a long way, you know.
Just make sure you can trust them. Otherwise, you may find your deposit turned over to the new regime or stolen by your travel agent.
And who wants to spend their exile on a godforsaken rock like Napoleon did on St. Helena?
If only he had a better travel agent.

The Customer

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You know the phrase The Customer Is Always Right?
Bullshit. This guy is an asshole.
For years, he’s been plaguing me with stupid questions, begging for me to help him, screaming that he’s losing thousands of dollars because of me.
It’s because he’s a stubborn jackass. It doesn’t matter what instructions I give to him – he ignores them.
When I read the paper this morning, I saw his name on the front page.
Seems his house burned down and he died in the fire.
I guess he didn’t follow the instructions again.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Love In An Elevator

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John was moving out of the building soon.
The security system told the elevator, and she was heartbroken.
She didn’t want to lose him. She loved how he touched her.
Every time the call button on his floor was pressed, she”d race there so she’d be first. Didn’t matter if she was carrying a passenger – he was all that mattered to her.
All the other elevators knew to leave that floor to her.
Like right now.
Her doors opened, and John stepped inside.
She closed her doors and she parked between floors.
“I’m keeping this one,” she thought, and waited.

Penguins

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I’m sitting at home, reading a book.
There’s a knock at the door.
I get up, walk to the door, and open it.
There’s penguins there. Ten of them.
They have lit torches. And pitchforks.
One steps forward. I think he’s the leader.
He says… CUT IT OUT!
I say… WHAT?
He says… CUT IT OUT! NOW!
The others nod their beaks.
I look at them, confused. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT
He checks his Blackberry, looks at the mailbox.
OH. SORRY. WRONG PLACE.
They leave.
I pick up the book.
“Cooking With Penguins”
Damn it.