Category: My stories

Killer Mistake

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“Just type the name and press the Enter key,” the KillKiosk said.
Bart typed in MOLLY MARGARET and hit Enter.
“There,” he said.
“Thank you,” said the KillKiosk. “Margaret Molly will be dead by nine AM tomorrow or your money back.”
Bart looked at the screen and realized the thing wanted the last name first.
“Crap!” he shouted.
He tried tapping on a few keys, but all he got was NO EXCHANGES OR REFUNDS.
“Screw it,” said Bart and he typed in MARGARET MOLLY.
He’s just refuse the charges and let Killkiosk fight it out with the credit card company.

Crown Of Foam

368192

Earl screamed in agony.
The slightest jostle could set his scalp on fire and fill his ears with boiling waves.
“Sit still,” said the scanner operator.
“I try,” said Earl. “God knows I try.”
The doctors found nothing, prescribing him so many pills until he realized that they had no idea what was wrong with him.
After two months, Earl firmly believed that his mind was a fish in glass bowl full of boiling water, swimming around while suffering.
So he declared himself Prince of the Glass Palace, built a crown of foam rubber, and stayed on his padded throne.

Dreamthief

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People are stealing my dreams and posting them online.
I have no idea who is doing it or how they are doing it, but the dreams I have while I’m asleep appear on the Internet the next morning.
The more vivid the dream, the more vivid the form in which it appears.
For a while, I wondered how they did it. I tore apart pillows, alarm clocks, my ceiling lamp… anything a mind-reading sensor or recorder could conceivably be hidden in.
I never found any.
Maybe this podcasted story is one of my dreams, stolen and posted online?
Thieving bastards.

Giving the fingers

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Ever say something you wish you could take back?
Mine’s easy. It’s: “If you’re going to censor people’s free speech for fear of offending anyone, why not just cut off everyone’s middle finger while you’re at it?”
Five weeks later, and I’m sitting on top of the largest pile of severed middle fingers in history. It’s a bloody, rotting heap of madness, and it’s getting bigger by the pair.
I think it’s some kind of World Record. World’s largest pile of severed human appendages. The guys who confirm those things came by last week.
And lost their middle fingers, too.

Paranoia Sandwich

361496

Just as the simultaneous invention of the telephone led to a rivalry between Alexander Graham Bell and some Italian dude, apparently “my” sandwich is being claimed as the development of a shopkeeper in Kazakhstan.
Thieving foreign scum…
Hey, what would you rather eat: a Laurence Simon or an Abu Salam Abdul Khouri Al-Mohammed Jafari?
What’s in it? What’s in my sandwich? Well, there’s… wait a minute. I know what you’re trying to do…
You’re trying to steal my sandwich!
I know who you are… you’re an agent of Jafari. Well, I’m no fool. I won’t tell you a damned thing!

The Kid Talked

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I couldn’t believe my ears! The kid talked! The kid opened his mouth, and instead of sucking on something or barfing, he talked!
The baby is only three or four months old, and he’s reciting Shakespeare.
No, really. Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.
Can’t use the toilet. Can’t walk. Can’t even crawl.
And sure enough, he’s into the third act of Julius Caesar.
I hate Julius Caesar. Give me a copy of As You Like It or a Midsummer’s Night Dream with a nice bottle of red wine to make the evening.
Oh well. We can always try for having another kid.

Vampire Insurance

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Some guy at a garlic processing plant claimed to have been bitten by a vampire and turned into one of them, on his disability claim form.
We suggested that he change to the night shift. You know, because that way he’d stay out of the sun.
Not good enough, he said. Vampires hate garlic at any time of the day, it seems.
So we asked him to prove that he’s a vampire. Turning into a bat or a vapor cloud or something like that. Not giving a reflection would be good enough for us, too.
Claimants can be such bloodsuckers.

Elevator Angst

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I used to be deathly afraid of elevators. I’d look down the gap between the elevator floor and the building floor and worry I’d fall through that crack.
I had nightmares about the bottom of the elevator shaft. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, screaming.
The doctors couldn’t help me. I kept thinking about that dark, bottomless pit.
One day, an elevator supervisor took me to a panel at the bottom of the elevator shaft. He opened it and showed me that the bottom of the shaft was strewn with candy and dimes.
I feel so much better now.

Do You Have Wars?

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Communication between the dimensions via hyperradio has been severely limited despite centuries of development. Brief messages, rotated ninety degrees from reality like passing notes in school.
Which is what it was used for in the end – grade school penpal projects.
After years of “Do you have a dog?” and “I like flowers.” the notes stopped. The last message to arrive was:
“Do you have wars?”
And that was it. Nothing else. Just hyperstatic.
As dull as they were, we will sure miss the daily chatter with those Earthers.
I think I’ll get the class a pet to raise tomorrow.

Heaven 101

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The first few months in Heaven are anything but. It’s an Eternity when you’re in Halo Manners 101, learning the proper brightness, angle, circumference, and elevation of your halo.
Then there’s Flying School. You might think you’ve been flying forever, but they still need to teach you the Rules Of The Sky.
Unless you played a Lyre during your mortal days, not only do you get to learn fingering and strumming technique for a year, but also have to master tuning the darn thing.
Here in Hell, once you have your horns and pitchfork, you’re on your own.
Happy hunting!