Category: My stories

Peek A Boo

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I have found another portal into a parallel universe.
Unlike the others, it’s to a universe where my daughter is still alive.
At first, I thought to bring my daughter here, but I don’t think I can explain how she survived a fatal car crash three years ago.
I could go there, but I’d have to take my parallel-self’s place. Not an easy thing to do when there’s been three years of experience to learn?
Perhaps I can peek in there and maybe watch her grow up. There’s no harm in that, right?
I won’t change anything. Nothing at all.

The Flying Banjoman

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We found the battered boat adrift off the coast of Nantucket.
Ragged body parts all over the deck, eventually we accounted for all the passengers, minus the pieces the seagulls dragged off.
Right there, jammed in the wheel, was a blood-soaked banjo.
“The uneasy spirit still roams the fog,” muttered the old harbormaster.
He reaches for the banjo and throws it back in the water.
“That’s evidence!” I shouted.
The harbormaster gave me a stare that drilled right into my bones.
“That’s what the last detective tried to tell me,” he said, and he pointed to… a severed lawman’s head.

Broke

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“Broke my parole by coming here,” said the old felon at the bar.
I served him another beer. Here, man needs a drink, man gets a drink.
Broke every string on my banjo.
Broke every heart in Arkansas.
Broke every finger on my hand.
Broke every law across the land.
Broke every record set before.
Broke every chain across the door.
Broke every mirror in the bar.
Broke every bank, but lost my car.
Broke every story in the news.
Broke every shoestring on my shoes.
Broke every code that hid your data.
Broke every promise, I’ll see you later.

The Planet’s Gotta Go

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Paradise Beta is going to be demolished tomorrow.
And that’s too bad, because Paradise Alpha and Paradise Beta were a cool binary planet arrangement.
Sadly, the Beta folks built what they thought was a new kind of generator, but it ended up messing with their angular momentum.
Their orbit’s changed significantly, someone did a few calculations, and found that in less than a year, they’d collide with Alpha.
Neither Beta nor Alpha liked that, so we’ve moved everyone on over to Alpha.
When Beta blows, it’ll atomize without making the star go nova.
Want to pull the trigger?
Go ahead.

Aziz

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I watched as a kid named Aziz celebrated in the schoolyard, the teacher leading his classmates in praise for Aziz’s brother.
He’d blown himself up, killing twenty people. Four of them were from my unit.
I followed Aziz home. Two men gave him a package, and he put it in his schoolbag.
I stopped him, took the bag away, and looked in the package.
It was a bomb. He was going to deliver it to another of his brothers to go blow himself up.
Instead, Aziz exploded in his house, taking his whole family with him.
Accidents can be caused.

Moment

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“Let me know when you have a moment,” said the boss.
His idea of a moment is not my idea of a moment.
A moment to me is a flash of recognition in the street, or sipping coffee that’s just a little too hot.
His idea of a moment is forty minutes at the end of the day, delaying my commute home until traffic’s at its worst.
It could be worse. I hear that the secret police of many nations tap people on the shoulder and say “Do you have a moment?” all the time.
Those people tend to vanish.

Mouse Trap

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Everybody’s trying to build a better mousetrap.
Me, I’m trying to build a worse mousetrap.
You can waste your time with engineering and materials science and physics and such, but after playing that old kids’ game, I just want to make a mess and a whole lot of noise.
Who cares if it traps a mouse or not, right? Half the fun is getting there.
And mom always said that you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
Speaking of which, what else do you want with your omelet besides shredded mouse?
Yeah, I thought you’d want cheese.

Supercuts

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Many years ago, Mom would take me to the barber shop for a haircut and the barber would put the apron on me, but I’d turn it around like a cape and run around the barbershop, pretending I was Superman, yelling LOOK AT ME I CAN FLY over and over again.
The barber would try to catch me, but I was too fast for him, and I’d run outside and into traffic and people would slam on their brakes to avoid running me over, and they’d rear-end each other and…
Oh, man. Good times.
I wish I was twenty-eight again.

Mr. Tambourine Man

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Hey, Mister Tambourine Man?
Get the hell out of here! Now!
No, really. Quit banging that tambourine and beat it.
You’re driving everyone nuts with that racket.
Oh, and maybe you should take a shower, too. I mean, you reek like landfill.
Then, when you’re clean, how about some music lessons?
Look, a guitar or a piano is a musical instrument. It takes skill to use.
On the other hand, a tambourine takes no skill whatsoever to use. You just smack it around and make noise.
Understand?
Good. Now put that tambourine in the trash and get out of here.

Crown Of Newspapers

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We put the crown of newspapers on the bum and call him our king.
He is no less confused now than before his coronation.
Commands flow from his ragged mouth like filth from a smokestack, catching the wind and joining the clouds.
The Regicide leaps up and smashes the king with a hammer.
The bloodsoaked crown falls into a puddle and goes limp.
Three days later, it is a grey waterlogged mass.
But that’s okay, we can make another. And find ourselves another king.
We will destroy him, too. Over and over.
Until kings, rulers of men, are no more.