Category: My stories

State quarters

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It was 1999, and the Delaware state quarters were released into circulation.
The parking meters were confused at the taste.
It was shaped like a quarter, but it tasted… subtly different.
Cherry? Cranberry?
Something like that.
“Is this another one of those stupid dollar coins?” asked a parking meter.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” said another. “It still tastes like a quarter.”
So, the parking meters agreed to treat them like quarters.
With every new state quarter, a new flavor greeted the parking meters.
Maple syrup, lavender, orange… what a wonderful variety they enjoyed.
Until Utah.
That tasted like crap.

The Hamburger

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Condiments slipping, sliding from a sesame seed bun, flowing down a white shirt like a tidal wave, staining pants with yellow and red.
Brion Gysin was eating a hamburger in a manner no mortal man had eaten a sandwich of any kind, and the consumption of said hamburger was an experience I had the pleasure of witnessing in its entirety.
Like an Aztec war bib, that shirt became, a river of color.
It was no less than religious epiphany, a communion that I daresay has not been repeated since, not even by Jack Kerouac and his legendary overstuffed Chicago-style frankfurters.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln #81

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The White House Carpenter was passed out drunk again, propped up against a sawhorse and snoring.
Abe desperately needed the kitchen table leveled. Mary Todd was long past tired of the wobble.
He tapped the carpenter with his shoe.
Nothing.
Mary Todd yelled out through the kitchen window, telling Abe to fire the drunk carpenter.
Abe yelled back: “He has acted badly in this matter, but we must use what tools we have.”
That night, the table still wobbled.
The next day, Mary Todd put poison in the carpenter’s whiskey, killing him.
“Wonderful,” moaned Abe. “Who will build his coffin?”

Counting Sheep

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Oh, sure, you think those sheep you count to get to sleep are sweet and innocent, but I know better.
It’s a conspiracy. The counting sheep want to take over the world.
I was only pretending to sleep the other night when the sheep came by for me to count. I closed my eyes and made snoring sounds, so the sheep felt comfortable letting their guard down.
They used my bedroom as a staging area for their campaign of global domination, preparing signs that said “Eat Less Mutton” and “If You Eat Us, How Can Perverts Have Sex With Us?”

Fall again

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It’s Fall again. Sun comes up later, temperature doesn’t get up as high as in the Summer.
If its get warmer, you can always take off a jacket or a sweater.
Or a hat. Lots of heat comes out of your head. Makes sense to have a hat to take off.
If it gets cold, just put the jacket back on. Put the hat back on, too.
Don’t worry about your hair. It’s fine, really.
It’s not quite time for a scarf, but if you want one, sure, go ahead.
Just don’t get it caught in the elevator door again.

Tree Crime

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I wanted to arrest that Maple Tree. I really did.
Instead, we took it Downtown for questioning.
Trees aren’t so tough when you get them away from other trees.
Still, it’s hard to pick a tree out of a lineup.
We hadn’t gotten to that point yet, though. The tree’s lawyer showed up, asks if his client has been charged with anything.
No, we say, but we just want a few questions answered.
Lawyer says the interview is over, we can’t charge him with anything, so it’s back to the forest.
I really hate the legal system sometimes, you know?

Dragonhunters

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A team of dragonhunters came to town the other day.
They’d heard that we held a lottery every year to choose a human sacrifice for the dragon that lives in the forest.
Truth is, we do it to figure out who gets stuck giving the dragon his annual scrubdown.
If you think the dragon stinks, you should smell the soap we use. Only a wizard can understand how the two produce “clean dragon” instead of “deadly, toxic stench.”
We’ll let the dragon finish these clowns off.
I just hope I don’t get stuck washing their corpses out of his scales.

Book By Its Cover

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My master says not to judge a book by its cover, but it doesn’t take an archmage to realize that his spellbook’s a pretty nasty bit of business.
At first glance, you notice the silver needles along the binding dripping with poison while the dragonhide cover trails wisps of smoke, right?
But how many people would notice the howling bog-wraiths trapped as the bar code on the back?
I mean, who puts bar codes on the back of a spellbook? It’s not you’re going to want to list it on Amazon with an ISBN, right?
Archmages can be weird sometimes.

One Too Many Words

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One word makes all the difference in the world sometimes.
You can spend hours, even days writing something, trying to capture the moment and get it on the paper or the screen, but you know it’s just not quite right.
It’s missing something. Or, it’s got something in there that just needs snipping off.
That’s the hard part, making a change to something you’ve spent so much time on.
One slip, and the whole piece is ruined, and you have to start over.
You can’t just go back to an earlier draft. It’s just not the same.
Just one word.

Free Samples

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This woman in a chef’s apron was giving out free samples of little sausages in the grocery store.
They were delicious.
“Try the dipping sauce,” said the woman.
And, you know what? They were even better!
I wanted more, so I asked her what brand they were and she said “Oh, they’re toes I collect at the morgue.”
That’s when I noticed the blood on her apron… and on her hands… and in her hair.
I had hardly noticed the little toenails as I chewed the “sausages.”
She grinned, holding the platter up higher.
“So, what dipping sauce is this?”