Category: My stories

The Throne

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God’s away on a holiday again.
So, we angels take turns sitting in God’s Throne.
The problem is, the throne’s not designed for angels. The Heavenly Infirmary’s full of broken and bent wings.
Still, we sit in the throne. Michelangelo offers to paint us, but the line’s too long for paintings.
We’re also getting sloppy. The Guardian Division’s been dropping the ball, drinking on the job.
I heard one Guardian shoved a little old lady into the street that he was supposed to save from a bus.
He’s blaming it a bent wing.
Yeah, you’re right. Heaven’s going to Hell.

For My Girls

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Remember when bums used to hold up those WILL WORK FOR FOOD signs?
Bums never did want to work. Now, they just bless you and shit like that.
At least they’re honest now.
Back when they’d work for food, I took my daughter Jenny to get an abortion from one of them. Mman, did that bum work cheap.
Sure, Jenny lost her uterus, but at least she got scraped clean.
Her little sister Suzie, got knocked up but no roadside bum abortionists for her.
We’ll just head to a back alley in Mexico.
Nothing but the best for my girls.

Play Presidents

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Let’s go play with our Presidents in the sand box!
Bring all your Presidents! We’ll drive them all over and build castles and stuff!
The girls, they play tea party with their Presidents and dress them up in dresses and girly stuff.
Ewwwwwwww.
We’re boys. We’ll play football and baseball and have jousting tournaments and hunt dragons and…
Oh no. The sun’s going down. Our mothers will call us in for dinner soon. We don’t want to be late for dinner.
You take your Presidents and I’ll take mine and we’ll meet back up here tomorrow to play, okay?
Bye.

Ashes

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We place the new chief in a massive stone urn and pour the ashes in on top of him.
These are special, sacred ashes – the ashes of all chiefs, generations upon generations of tribal leaders that have come before.
This ceremony is supposed to pass along the wisdom of the ages, infusing our new leader with the strength and experience to guide us, but most times it just suffocates the dumb son of a bitch.
“Breathe in the knowledge!” commands the High Priest.
And the ceremony for New High Priests? They just paint their faces green and chant.
Go figure.

Drool

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Thor’s Drool, you say?
That’s not easy to come by. It’ll cost you.
Sure, Thor the Thunder God’s gone senile, not enough worshipers to get a bed in the Old Gods’ Home, but he’s still plenty dangerous when he’s lucid.
Eyes like burning ice, full beard with fresh war ribbons is how I like to remember him.
Now, he’s just a grimy angry old wretch living in a cave.
Hrm… let’s see…
I’ll send Rodney out to collect the drool for you. “Lucky Rod” I call him, but more like “Lightning Rod” when Thor’s aim is good.
Cash or charge?

The Last Time

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The last time I saw her, she was dancing in the middle of the street.
It wasn’t safe there, with all the traffic, but she was enthralled with some tune or poem in her head, and she just raised her arms in the air and turned like she was fending off really slow bees.
A scream pierces the air. But it’s not her, she hasn’t been hit yet.
They’re screaming for her to get out of the street. People on the sidewalks are doing that, too.
Nobody runs out to grab her. The traffic’s too thick. They just keep yelling.

Strippers

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Old Joe was a funny man, great to be around.
Every night, he’d shuffle from strip club to strip club, peeling off five-dollar bills from a roll as thick as a cabbage.
I don’t know how long he’d been doing this, but that roll never ran out. Not to his dying day.
At his funeral, the place was packed wall-to-wall with strippers, and by the end of the service, the floor was a sea of veils and black dresses.
One final party.
There in the center, old Joe, smiling in his coffin, gripping that bundle of fives.

Hand Of Revenge

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A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, the old saying goes.
In the silvery moonlight, a severed hand crawls its way through the forest.
It’s been crawling for a while, because it’s all tangled up in vines and dead leaves. Completely covered in dirt.
Don’t ask how it performs this hideous task. To learn of the magic spells that impel this hand is to earn oneself eternal damnation.
Just stay back, let the hand pass, and know that whomever it is seeking will suffer great pain.
But not as much as the one-handed wretch who sent it out, seeking revenge.

Bag Of Hair

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Vanity can be such a drag.
The problem I’m facing is… my hair is turning grey and falling out.
All things considered, I’d rather have it turn grey than fall out.
I mean, hair that’s still on your head you can color. Then you’re going around with colored hair.
Hair that falls out is a lot harder to color. Still, I collect it all up out of the shower trap and sink and color it every evening.
If people ask me if I’m going grey, I take out the plastic bag full of hair and scream NO I AM NOT.

Angels Blush

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At first, my picture was up in the Post Office. Then, they took it down.
“Racy,” they called it. “Too damn sexy.”
I have done things in the line at the Post Office that could make angels blush and The Devil bite his lip.
They got rid of the stamps you lick because of me. How I’d lick a stamp, postal carriers fainted by the dozens.
Calling my actions sinful and “moral cancer,” the Postmaster General declared war on me, and stamps became stickers that weekend.
Don’t ask me where I stick mine. You couldn’t handle the thought of it.