Category: My stories

Trinkets

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The ancient Indian closed his eyes and hissed a curse:
The land, it hates you. It trembles with rage, shaking under your accursed White Man’s feet, wishing it could swallow you whole and spit you out in Hell.
Those maps in your wicked hand will not guide you. The land will twist and writhe like The Snake Spirit, sending you to your doom.
I looked at the trinkets on his table again.
“Okay, twenty bucks for the necklace,” I said.
“Thirty,” said the Indian.
“Twenty-five?”
The Indian smiled. “Sold,” he said. “And you’re lost because your map is upside down.”

Remedy or Cause?

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“Where’s my icepack?” shouted Alice.
Elmo pulled the tray from the freezer, bent it over the ice bucket, and waited for the cubes to fall out.
Nothing.
He scratched his head and smirked.
“Maybe they’re not clean?” he said.
Elmo ran the trays under the faucet, then poured them out and wiped them down with a kitchen towel.
He smiled as he stuck them back in the freezer.
“Where’s my icepack?” shouted Alice. “This migraine is killing me!”
“I’m still working on it!” shouted Elmo back, happily. “And don’t you worry – that ice is going to be really clean!”

Moonlighting

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They made fruit smoothies by day and killed babies by night.
We found the tiny corpses in the dumpster behind the Blend-a-Rama. If it hadn’t have been for a hungry stray dog, we’d have never known it was a front for a backalley abortion clinic.
The problem is, it’s not their dumpster. And the geniuses at Crime Lab screwed the evidence in a mixup. Someone got high on seized weed, had the aborted tykes incinerated.
All they’re getting is a health code citation and a slap on the wrist.
Word spreads fast. Their business is booming now, day and night.

Unwelcome Visitor

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Too much TV is bad for your eyes and the fabric of space-time.
A rent in the universe opened up behind my entertainment center last week.
Every now and then, a hideous tangle of tentacles and fangs comes screaming out of the wormhole, lashes around for a minute or so, then slowly wiggles itself to death as it chokes on our nitrogen and oxygen atmosphere.
We dump their bodies in the trash. Double-bagged. Those fangs are sharp, you know.
The dog ran through the portal this morning. The kids want me to go after him.
Screw that. We’re getting fish.

Dragon’s Hoard

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Nobody knew why Dragon’s Cliff was named as it was.
Except Arthur. He knew.
Arthur clutched Captain Dragon’s treasure map and laughed.
“Fifty more paces, and I’ll be rich,” he mumbled.
As his feet walked the final fifty paces, his mind raced through all the wonderful things he’d buy with the gold.
Or diamonds. Or whatever Dragon had buried.
It was after forty-five paces that Arthur encountered two forces of nature at once:

  • Erosion had worn away the cliffs in the three centuries since Dragon made his map.
  • Gravity yanked him the seventy feet down to the rocks below.

Thud.

Stupid Girl

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The sky turned black and roared.
“Everyone! Cellar!” shouted Henry to his wife and niece.
They ran to the storm shelter, but their niece was gone.
“Where is that stupid girl?” growled Henry.
Emily spotted her running in the yard. “She’s chasing that damned dog,” she said.
Henry yelled, but the winds drowned him out.
“I’m going back,” he said.
“No, you’re not!” yelled Emily, slamming the shelter door.
The winds roared louder, then a crash.
Finally, silence.
Henry slowly opened the door.
“See her?” asked Emily.
“Yup,” said Henry. “Tornado tossed her through a tree.”
“Stupid girl,” muttered Emily.

The Sea of Lost Children

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The Crown Prince put down his teacup.
“There is no abortion in the Kingdom,” he said.
He smiled. We smiled.
Ten hours later, the GPS unit told us to stop.
“Welcome to the Sea of Lost Children,” said our guide, pointing at the dunes.
We took turns digging.
Eventually, we found them.
“Suffocated in plastic,” said Bob. “Postnatal. No abortion.”
“Just plain murder,” I said. “How convenient.”
That’s when we heard choppers.
We tried to run, but soldiers surrounded us.
“Keep digging,” commanded an officer. “You sought them out, so join them now.”
Ever breathe plastic?
I don’t recommend it.

hero

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I never understood that superhero, the one who walked out of an atomic explosion and had flames on his head. Flamehead Guy or Atomic Firehead or something like that.
“Help, Atomic Flamehead Guy!” someone would shout. And he’d fly to rescue them.
Do you think he lit cigarettes with his head? Or made s’mores with it?
If I had a flaming head, I would.
I thought he was cool. I wanted to be him for Halloween, but my mother stopped me before I could light this Sterno can I glued to my head.
What? She’s gone?
Light me up, dude!

Ulysses With A Sneer

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They left the gates open, and the guards all stayed home.
The mansion had never been a home. It always felt like a hideout, although the drugs sometimes made it feel like a slide under the world’s microscope.
Or a prison.
“Welcome home,” he muttered.
He’d been gone for almost 30 years, but his key still fit in the lock.
Maybe they switched the old lock back in the door, just for him.
He wandered around the mansion, which had become a sterile museum. Signs everywhere, saying what he’d done, where and when.
But never why.
He shrugged and left.

Home Sweet Hell

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“Welcome home, Sir,” said the demon on duty at the Gates of Hell.
“What’s with the damn line?” asked Satan. “It took me two weeks to get to this spot.”
“Someone moved our records to that stupid Windows Vista crap and-”
Satan raised his hand. “Say no more.” He laughed and walked up to the turnstile…
*THUNK*
Which didn’t budge.
“Stuck?” asked Satan.
“Um…” stammered the demon. “While you were gone, we had a teensy weensy revolution kind of thing.”
“Hitler?”
“Yasser.”
“Figures,” said Satan. He turned around.
“Leaving again, Sir?”
“Yeah,” said Satan.”Call if you need me.”
They didn’t.