Little Steven sits on the floor, humming a tune:
There’s an elf
On the shelf
Sitting all
By himself
I look up on the shelf and see the elf.
I didn’t buy it for him.
Did you? No?
Then where did it come from?
There’s no way that he could get it up there.
The stepstool is too short to reach it.
His toychest is too heavy to move.
And he couldn’t have thrown it up there.
I reach for the elf.
Did you see that? Did you see it move?
I put it in a drawer.
And lock it.
Tag: mystery
A thing of the past
I saw the thing along the roadside among the rocks and litter.
It was a thing of the past, forgotten and neglected, and left by the roadside, in the rear-view mirror, and in the dust.
People don’t bother with things of the past anymore. They’re obsessed always seeking the next big thing.
But sometimes, a sense of nostalgia slows them down, and they stop.
They look for a bit, looking it over.
Sometimes they pick it up and call it an antique. Or a relic.
Or they leave it.
By the roadside.
In the rear-view mirror.
And in the dust.
The Cat And The Camera
I bought a wireless microcamera the other day, and for fun, I clipped it to my cat’s collar.
It took her a while to get used to the thing, but she did.
The monitor showed her jumping the fence, watching birds, and running through the grass after lizards and frogs.
She took a turn into an old barn, and there were dozens… hundreds of cats in there.
Their mouths were moving, but I couldn’t hear anything.
One pointed to the collar.
They sniffed it, and then swarmed out the barn door.
Um… I think I’ll go out for a pizza.
Stamp
I can’t remember the last time I needed a stamp.
I pay my bills online with online banking.
I send electronic cards to most people. Okay, some merit actual cards, but postage is prepaid by Hallmark now.
Heck, when was the last time I needed a letter at all? Those are also electronic messages, through my email or via a phone or some instant messenger program.
Oh, now I remember: I had a cut on my finger, and I didn’t have a bandage.
Then, I fell asleep, and someone dropped me into a mailbox.
Clunk.
LET ME OUT OF HERE!
The Music Of The Stairs
The music teacher in my high school was rather avant-garde.
Instead of learning to play our instruments in the traditional sense: blowing into them, stroking them with various implements, or smiting them with mallets in some semblance of rhythm and meaning, we tossed them down a flight of stairs to listen to the odd beauty of the cacophony.
The school administration tolerated his madness, and since the instruments were already in bad shape, tossing them down stairs was significantly less expensive than repairs.
It was when he filled in for the drama teacher than they had to let him go.
Otis
There are two Saint Otises of Prague.
The first Otis is the Patron Saint of Elevators Going Up.
The other Otis is the Patron Saint of Elevators Going Down.
They were martyred when their elevators collided.
How elevators in separate shafts collide was a total mystery, and the priest who was called to deliver last rites to the two Otises declared it a miracle.
The Vatican handled the rest.
And this is why you see OTIS on every elevator.
Well, the ones that the Saint Otises watch over.
There’s no Otis on this one?
Um, I’ll take the stairs then.
No Idea
I woke up with a splitting headache.
Checked my head, my hands.
No blood.
I looked around.
Hotel room. Clean, but nothing fancy.
Phone book says Dallas.
I’m in Dallas.
Where was I before Dallas?
I don’t know.
I check my wallet.
Cards. Driver’s license.
That’s me, Ted Martin.
I look through my receipts, trying to piece together how I got here.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
Rental cars.
I lay it all out on the bed.
I check my pockets for a cell phone.
None.
The nightstand. An envelope.
Full of white powder.
“Breathe” it says.
So I breathe.
And sleep.
Sleep.
The Robe and The Mask
Carlton has worn a mask and robes since the age of seven.
Some say he was burned badly in a fire, but that’s not the kind of thing you ask a kid. Or his parents.
It wasn’t in the papers, and I don’t see any mention of it in the news archives.
And he moves around pretty good.
Like a kid, and not like someone with skin grafts and other debilitating injuries.
He sounds pretty normal, too. Not like his body’s rotting out from under him.
Maybe he just likes the robes and the mask?
Maybe he’s just kinda weird?
Stolen Dreams
Ever have your dreams stolen from you?
It happens all the time, I know, but what can you do about it?
Can’t call the cops. It’s not a crime to steal dreams.
Can’t file an insurance claim. They’re not covered by homeowner policies.
I tried to put up posters around the neighborhood, but all people called me about was a lost cat and how much I wanted for my lawnmower.
One guy insisted on giving me his credit card number and making me talk dirty to him for two bucks a minute.
And that’s how I got my dreams back.
Limber Me Timbers
When Jill finished her Phys Ed and Business degrees, she opened up a yoga studio.
Business was good, plenty of young mothers and forty-somethings needing to lose a few pounds, or keep pounds away.
Then, Wii Fit and other cheaper options came out, followed by the recession.
She tried pilates classes, but those didn’t draw.
“Try a GroupOn,” said a friend.
Half-off coupons brought in a wave of signups to her studio.
Then… disaster.
First day, the room was filled with buccaneers.
One waved a printout in his good hand.
“Yarrr, I signed up fer Pirates classes!”
Damn you, Autocorrect!