Category: My stories

Martian Attack

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I’d tell you all about the time I fought the Martians to save the world, but it’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it right now.
Let’s just say that without me, the humanity would be doomed.
Well, doomed to slavery and genocide under the rule of the Martians.
As opposed to the doom it is facing now.
So, my solution was a bit drastic. But it’s not every day you get to pulverize two planets with a single asteroid strike.
If you look carefully at the sky, you’ll see Mars is gone.
And, soon – us.

Sleep Like A Baby

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I’ve been having trouble sleeping recently.
I used to get seven or eight hours of sleep, but now… well, none at all.
While watching television one night – or was it morning – I saw a commercial.
It was for a new sleeping pill. It promised me that I could sleep like a baby.
So, I talked to my doctor, and I started taking the pills.
I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Quite literally, sleeping like a baby.
I wake up three times a night, call my parents on the phone, and cry for no reason.
Oh, and I’m constantly shitting myself.

Pancakes

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The Oracle of Omaha breakfasts at the same diner I go to every day.
There’s always a crowd there because folks are always wanting to ask him for advice.
Me, I’ve never asked him anything.
Why? Because everybody asks the same things over and over.
And nothing about how he’s doing and such. It’s always folks looking to get rich.
So, one day, he gets fed up and tells everyone: “Buy waffles, sell high.”
Weird, huh?
Problem is, the media got hold of this advice, and the entire economy collapsed overnight.
Me, I didn’t fall for it.
I bought pancakes.

Malone

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Word on the street is that Malone is back in town.
Malone’s got a file on him.
It’s a big file. Really big.
Takes up a whole building. Twenty cops working around the clock on that file.
The Feds took an interest in Malone a while back, and they wanted a copy of the file.
We laughed. They came down to see what we were laughing at.
When they saw it, they laughed too, and lost interest in Malone really quick.
Chief says we move on Malone tonight.
Good. We need the building.
It’ll make more room for Casey’s file.

Creature Infinite in Scope

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Like every creature infinite in scope, God was a bored and lonely being.
He created the universe, then He filled it with all sorts of interesting stuff.
Including us.
What interests Him the most is our capacity for faith and gratitude in the aftermath of a disaster.
Whatever He hurls our way, we come together and seek His guidance.
So, He tests us more. You could even say He tortures us now and then.
But not for His amusement. No, it’s for some kind of reason or plan.
For a creature infinite in scope, shouldn’t He know the answer already?

Ghostwork

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If you have a ghost, my advice to you is to give it a job.
Ghosts can be very useful. And loyal.
A ghost will enjoy walking your dog for you while you’re busy. And they’ll prepare delicious dinner meals while saving you the chore of cleaning up afterwards.
Got landscaping to do? I’ve got one word for you: ghost. There is nothing more reliable than a ghost with a lawnmower and hedge trimmers.
I, for one, have three of them working for me.
Hold on… maybe I meant to say “Mexicans.”
Or Mexican ghosts.
Still, they do excellent work.

Rygar

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Jack?
Oh, Jack! He calls himself “Rygar” now, and he sleeps in his basement under a pile of old towels.
Until… he wakes up… senses… INTRUDER!
“Come on out, Jack,” said his landlord, nervously twiddling his keychain. “We need to talk about you tapping the Smith’s cable line.”
“RYGAR ANGRY!” shouts Jack, and he searches his towel-pile for weapons.
“I’m sure you are,” said the landlord. “We’ll discuss this when you’re ready, okay?”
The landlord sighed and reminded himself that of all his tenants, Jack paid his rent on time.
And in cash.
“Grondar Goldheart happy,” growled the landlord, chuckling.

Marching Boots

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Every moment, we grow more afraid.
Boots! Boots! Marching Boots!
I can hear them marching in the streets, the boots of the soldiers!
Not the soldiers themselves, mind you. Just their boots.
It’s an impressive sight, so many boots marching in unison, completely in step.
A fearsome sight. A scary sight.
We peer out of our windows, watching them.
Who will protect us from these boots? Who will stop this stomping menace?
The soldiers?
No, they are more afraid than we humble citizens are.
We watch the socks, drying on the clothesline.
Will they be next?
All hope is lost.

Scythe

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Fashion is so fickle, you know.
This year in Paris, all the rage is scythe.
“Scythe is the new black,” says a designer, and he pedals the grindstone faster. Sparks fly!
The blade’s edge is sharp, and the flat of it is polished mirror-like.
Trowels and rototillers are so yesterday… scythe is now! It’s hip! It’s fresh!
It’s the in thing.
The word is: scythe.
“It’s the new black,” says the model behind the stage, changing from Versace to Armani. “It goes with everything.”
She checks her hair and heads for the runway.
Watch out, world. Scythe! Scythe is here!

Bad Wine

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As I watch the sailboats slide slowly across the bay, I open our bottle of wine.
“Was it a good year?” my sister asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Year’s not over yet.”
Aunt Polly used to say that good company makes up for bad wine.
We’ve been doing this for years – bad wine, stale bread, and a ratty old blanket on the shore of the bay.
“Is the sun going up or down?” my sister says.
“I’m not sure anymore,” I say. “Have a drink.”
We used to go out rowing, the three of us.
Don’t ask.
Just drink.