Gramma died last week.
She was an only child, Mom and Dad have been dead for years, and I’m her only grandson.
I moved away for work a few years ago, and went back and visited, but really couldn’t take time off.
So I had the crematorium pick up her body from the rest home.
They were supposed to mail her ashes to me, but the tracking number is wrong, and the post office doesn’t have any other records of it.
Out there, somewhere, is Gramma.
Probably sitting on a shelf with others lost in transit.
Should have used Fedex.
Travis
Travis Scott has a history of yelling for the audience to rush the stage.
“There are more of you than guards,” he’s said.
What utter dumbasses take a job to guard his shows?
The guy you’re supposed to protect, screaming for the audience to attack you.
What an ungrateful son of a bitch.
I tried to listen to his… “music” is what he calls it?
Three “songs” in, and I had to hit stop.
I want to go to the hospital rooms of the injured… the funerals of the dead.
And say “You were willing to die for this shit?”
The cool kids
I don’t hang with the cool kids.
I’m rather behind on the times, so I don’t know where the cool kids hang.
Do they still hang at the roller rink?
Do they still hang at the drive in?
Do they still hang at the malt shop?
That’s kinda dated, I admit.
That’s Fifties thinking.
Do they still hang at the arcade?
Do they still hang at the mall.
Maybe. Not sure. This isn’t the Eighties, man.
Where do the cool kids hang now?
If they don’t wash their hands, get vaccinated, and mask up, they’ll all hang at the ICU.
Weekly Challenge #944 – PICK TWO Express, In my hand, Expected, Cut and dried, Desiccation, Blocker
The next topic is Blood is thicker than water
NORVAL JOE
The tree, struck by lightning, burned and sizzled as rain and wind slashed against the window of Sabrina’s room.
The nurse’s frown faded to an apologetic smile. “If it was in my hands, I’d let you stay. But these are the rules, cut and dried.”
“I expected as much.” Billbert made to leave.
“No!” Sabrina snapped, squeezing his fingers. “Keep your hand in mine!”
The nurse folded her arms. “Okay. You have until I give report in about forty-five minutes.”
Billbert glanced at her name tag. “Thanks, Nurse Racquet. Can I come back tomorrow, earlier?”
She sighed. “I guess so.”
SERENDIPIDY
Here’s where I keep them, sealed away tightly in airtight boxes to keep out the humidity.
Cut and dried into cubes, the desiccation process preserves all the flavour, but makes storage simple and none of those nasty smells to deal with.
Then, when I have guests for dinner, I simply rehydrate a few cubes overnight and use them to make stock, or simply crumble them over the meal, to add a nice piquancy to the food.
Delicious!
I think so, anyway.
My guests, sometimes disagree.
So I slit their throats, and use their bodies for the next batch of seasoning.
TOM
here in jungle-land 945 859 860
The children of the unforgiven tooled broken express lanes. No time to be expected. Enter longing, regret hot shame. In her hand was his redemption, In his hand was the echo of pain. Whined out a fiery engine cut and dried in the furnace’s reframe. She knew no reason to wait in the darkness. He was her savior, her light, her flame. This flight was his last. Wheels pounding in the rain. A wall of law behind them a wall of law ahead. Desiccation of hope hardens the heart, but concrete blockers will end the game. Here in jungle-land.
A line of lawmen, a wall of cars and a hail of bullets in wait. Just at the edge of eyesight the Rat was making his run. Like the speediest falling star, brief and doomed, he never really had a choice, gun the engine at that blue line, and lose. Music was spilling out the window in some broken down Homeric hymn. The barefoot girl keep time with its mournful beat that mark the last full measure of her empty life. In the end it was just the sound of metal, then a silence you could cut with a knife.
The rasping of rain in the gutters. Thumbs setting safeties, up turn barrels in the night. A trail of smoke above a trail blood below. Crossing the heart of the city one less rebel ment one less reason to fight. In morning would there be a pray for the rat? Would his passing even be noted? Would a mother cry for her child? For a good girl gone bad. When the song is finally written who is forgotten who is not? Only the strong stay strong and the meek fade way. Burn bright the children of night here in jungle land.
LIZZIE
The guy stole my headset, and then the gun magically appeared in my hand and I just had to shoot. I knew the detective wasn’t buying my loony bin strategy… My lawyer told me to shut up, but I just had to talk. And I went on and on about voices, lots of voices “can’t you hear them?!”. My lawyer said “shut up” again, but I just had to keep talking. In court, my lawyer turned to me and said “Voices?! Did you hear my voice??” And then I was given life. Perhaps I should write a book about voices!
RICHARD
Express Checkout
I really don’t know why I bother!
Every single time, it’s always the same: I pop in to the store, rushing as always, and up against the clock.
So, of course, I choose the express checkout, as I always do, and – as I always do – I regret it, almost immediately.
The guy with more than ten items; the woman with annoying kids, demanding sweets and gum; the idiot, struggling to swipe their credit card, or fumbling for change.
All of them delaying the line, each one a blocker to my rapid exit.
Express checkout, my arse!
Slower than the others!
PLANET Z
Every morning, Harry took the express train to work.
He had been taking the local route, but after timing all the stops and delays, he saved a few minutes by driving to the next town over and boarding there for the express.
Sure, it took a little more gas, but when the station offered free charging, he traded in his car for an electric and let it charge all day while he was at work.
Henry was so proud of himself, until the express missed a signal and slammed into a garbage truck.
His blood-soaked briefcase landed in the weeds.
CHATGPT
The express train rumbled through the desert, where desiccation had reduced the landscape to dust. In my hand, I clutched a letter with “urgent” stamped on it. The message was clear: return home immediately. The situation wasn’t as cut and dried as I’d hoped. Dad’s health was failing, the letter said, and I was expected to make a choice I’d dreaded. My heart felt like a blocker was squeezing it, but I knew what I had to do. The train screeched to a stop at my station, and I stepped onto the platform, bracing myself for what awaited me.
The night sky
My grandfather loaded up the boat with our fishing gear, and we went out on the lake.
“The lights in the sky are real,” he said.
“They’re stars,” I said. “They’re planes. They’re helicopters.”
“No,” he said. “The other ones.”
And he’d offer his flask, and I’d just drink my coffee.
And we never caught any fish.
Years later, I took the boat out on the lake.
I had his flask with me, and drank a toast to him.
Up in the sky, I saw the lights.
They weren’t stars. Or planes. Or helicopters.
And they got brighter. And brighter.
A liberation of sorts
The bloody body of the dictator was shown on television.
“Liberation!” said the headlines. “Everyone rejoice!”
People wanting to see the body went to the palace and joined a queue, and then were ushered into waiting rooms.
After a few minutes, they walked into a viewing room, where they saw a bloody corpse.
Some spat in his face. Others dropped their pants and pissed on him.
But there were a few than bowed.
They were taken off to another room.
Where they met the very-much-alive dictator.
He thanked them, handed them guns, and sent them after his less respectful visitors.
The dream weaver
Got bad dreams?
Hire a dream weaver.
Dream weavers come to your house with a case of tricks.
Candles, chimes, and aromas in jars.
Pills of strange colors and various sizes.
“No, that’s not a pill,” says the dream weaver.
Meticulously curated music playlists to lull you to sleep.
Some will massage you, touch you all over, rub you with oils and other substances.
And then… you fall asleep… and you’re awake again.
The bad dreams are gone. But you didn’t dream at all.
Doesn’t matter. That wasn’t the deal.
Oh, and cash, please. And nothing bigger than a twenty.
Torches and pitchforks
A crowd gathered in the town square.
Some had torches.
Others had pitchforks.
Bob had a pitchfork on fire.
The others mocked Bob.
“They ran out of torches, and I really wanted a torch,” Bob told his wife after the gathering.
“Someone with a torch could have traded with you,” his wife said. “Besides, we have torches in the closet.”
“You said those were the good torches for company,” said Bob.
Bob and his wife had soup for dinner.
Then went to bed.
Bob dreamed of a gathering in the town square.
He had a torch.
And he was happy.
Fireball pitcher
Smithy was a fireball pitcher.
After ten seasons without a World Series ring, the eleventh was the same futility.
He demanded a trade to another team hot in the race for one.
Come November, he flashed that ring around his new city like there’s no tomorrow.
So much so, he blew out his elbow.
When it was time for the Hall of Fame, he wanted his plaque to show the new team’s logo.
He only wore it for three months.
The old team convinced him otherwise, with videotape of him and some of his young fans in the locker room.
The mad wooden boy
After escaping the whale’s belly, Pinocchio and Gepetto fell off of their raft and washed ashore on a small island.
There were plenty of trees and vines to lash together into a raft, but they had no tools.
Instead, Gepetto used vines to tie down Pinocchio.
Then he demanded that Pinocchio tell lies, and Gepetto used a pair of rocks to snap off the end of his nose, over and over again.
The pain was excruciating, and it drove the puppet boy mad.
When he had enough wood, Gepetto lashed together a raft.
But Pinocchio stabbed him with a stake.