Even though I spend a lot of time alone, I don’t feel lonely at all.
I like to be alone with my thoughts.
I think up my best ideas when there’s nobody interrupting me or trying to tell me everything they’re thinking.
I barely have room for all my own thoughts, let alone theirs.
So, I thank them for their thoughts, walk away, and spit them out in the toilet.
I check before flushing, just to make sure it’s their thoughts I spit out, and not mine.
I hope the toilet doesn’t back up again. I just cleaned the floor.
Tag: mystery
Mummy’s Curse
Despite what they tell you at the tavern, there is no Mummy’s Curse.
Maybe there’s the risk of exposure to deadly mold, but you just wore a breathing mask to avoid that particular hazard.
Simple.
The bodies are long dead, and their spirits have moved on.
Your only concern should be the authorities. They look unkindly upon grave robbers and have been known to torture then to death.
Thank goodness I found you.
I’ll just steal it from you, but contrary to popular wisdom, I do have honor.
You can cut through your bonds in an hour with your knife.
The portal
I finished the time portal last night.
It’s nothing fancy, really. Just a room-temperature superconducting toroid.
The fancy stuff is in the control mechanism.
Well, that and the math I needed to establish the displacement field.
Have I gone back in time yet?
No. Haven’t had the chance.
Every time I try to go through the field, something comes through.
And, every now and then, someone.
Me.
Another me.
I stood there, and I laughed at myself.
Then I apologized, waved, and was gone.
Or was that me?
Want to see it?
Not yet. It’s not done yet.
When?
Soon.
Scope
The supply room at the university hospital was manned by a lunatic, so whenever you tried to order a replacement microscope, it was highly possible you’d get something entirely different.
One technician got a periscope. He had to move his office one floor down to read his slides.
Another technician ended up with a telescope. He had to move his office to the moon.
A third technician received a kaleidoscope. He never did get much work done after that, marveling at the pretty colors all day.
I got a colonoscope and got fired for pulling data out of my ass.
The Spell
There’s always a few parts left over when you fix it, right?
Well, the famous Maillardet Automaton is no exception.
Charles Roberts reconstructed the device without plans or diagrams back in 1928, and repairs were made in the Seventies and 2007.
The cams and disks inside cause the mechanism to make four drawings and three poems.
It used to write a fourth poem, but those disks were removed after a fire nearly destroyed the Franklin Institute.
Not really a poem, but a spell.
A doomsday spell, barely stopped.
Turn the crank again.
Watch the clockwork boy wink, grin, and laugh.
The Juggler
Emmett The Post-Modern Juggler didn’t juggle balls or torches or chainsaws.
He juggled schedules.
From an entertainment aspect, okay, he was boring as hell. Just sitting up there on stage, tapping away at his iPad and syncing it to his laptop and phone.
But the Time Management consultants were fascinated how he dealt with scheduling conflicts while engaged in so many different tasks and doing them well.
“He’s on vacation in Paris while giving a presentation in Chicago and attending his grandmother’s funeral?” they said. “He’s amazing!”
The lawyers weren’t impressed. “Let’s see him bill all that like we do.”
The Voices
Every so often when we try to do something, we hear those voices:
You can’t do it.
You’re not good enough.
Don’t bother trying.
But we don’t always hear them. And other people never hear them at all.
So, I set up a 900 number that people can call to be connected to a room full of critical and pessimistic people.
Sure, I could write an app to simulate that kind of thing, cycling those voices in a loop, but when I tested it, those voices played over and over in my head, and I just gave up on it.
The Poison Machines
The preacher of the breakroom raises his hand and shouts:
The snack machines are full of brightly-colored and delicious death in shiny crinkly packets.
Just push a button.
They fit in your hand, so easy to tear open, puffing out rich scents.
Turn away, turn away. Don’t breathe it in!
They confess their ill intent right there on the ingredients list.
Poison! Poison!
Even the water… flour… sugar… all unclean and tainted by the industrial processing and cooking and packaging and delivery systems.
You are not the consumer. You are the consumed.
The machine wobbles… and falls on the preacher.
Forget Things
Hi. I’m sorry. I forget things. More things every day.
I know this because I write things down.
“Write things down,” said Rose.
I have that on my writing pad on the top.
Who’s Rose?
She’s the one who told me to write things down. It says so right here.
She also told me to write down “Never be afraid” and “Do what people tell you.”
And “Write things down.”
What is my name?
I don’t know.
Look at my wrist?
There’s a tattoo.
A rose.
Me?
I should write that down.
Before I…
Hi. I’m sorry. I forget things.
Soul Licenses
Deep in the User Agreement for the new software release, Ted slipped the sentence “User agrees to give their soul to Company” into the text.
“This will get people to read it!” he chuckled.
Nobody did, and pretty soon, Ted’s inbox filled up with souls.
The IT Department got pissed at him. “You filled the mail server, Ted! You need to send these back or delete them!”
“I can’t!” moaned Ted. “That would be murder. Or soulacide. Or…”
He resold them to The Devil for pennies on the dollar.
“I was going to get these anyway, just saving me time.”