Tag: history

The Island

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The island isn’t on any maps.
Well, okay. It appears on one map: mine.
It’s off the trade routes. I only found it because of a freak storm that blew me ashore here.
It doesn’t even have a name.
Want to name it?
No rush. We won’t be here long, anyway.
Just long enough to bury the treasure and the prisoners.
That’s right – bury them.
Remember when I gave orders to take no prisoners?
This is why.
Just be sure to give ’em each a sip of whiskey before… you know.
I may be a pirate, but I’m no Savage.

The Rails

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It’s been fifty years since a train last came through here.
Still, the villagers keep the tracks clear, the rails rust-free, and they replace the wood ties every few years.
They think if they keep the tracks ready, a train will come some day.
“If you put food out on your porch, you get cats,” says the mayor. “So we figure the same for trains, right?”
At night, I like to lie on the tracks and look up at the stars.
As a kid, I heard the whistle, the soft ringing of the rails, the engines…
Lay back and listen.

Spaceman

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He said he was a spaceman and that he’d come a long way to visit Earth.
I shook his hand and welcomed him to our planet.
He thanked me, took off his helmet, and looked around.
“It looks a lot different since the last time I was here,” he said.
“How long has it been since you were last here?” I asked.
“A while,” he said. “Too long, I guess.”
“Yeah, things change quickly these days,” I said. “Kinda hard to keep up.”
We sat for a while, drank a few beers, and watched the stars.
“Too long,” he said.

The Best Tea

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Back in WW1, as our boys fought the Kaiser, we made sure they were provided with the best.
The best guns. The best uniforms. The best food. And, most of all, the best tea.
Now, conditions weren’t always the best, and it’s hard to transport millions of teacups through enemy lines. And no civilized man drinks tea from a tin cup.
So, the boys would put tea leaves on their tongues and we’d pour in the boiling water.
They made a contest of it, who could hold their tea the longest before swallowing.
Sugar? Lemon?
Pathetic Nancy boys, those were!

Wilton

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Where El Dorado was paved with gold, the town of Wilton is paved with cake.
Gingerbread houses and frosting flowers line Angel Food Lane, their gumdrop mailboxes overflowing with letters written on coconut.
In between classes, Wilton Elementary serves sugary snacks to the peanut-brittle children.
The Department of Works rolls around in a cake-pan truck, patching holes in the streets, mending the breaks in the peppermint sewers, and planting spun-sugar trees when the old ones dry up and flake away.
The explorers look at each other, mumble “El Dorado?”
One shakes the compass, and they walk back into the woods.

George

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George hated dogs. He hated the shit out of them.
People were always telling their dogs to bark at him, or worse – set their dogs loose on him.
George spent an awful lot of his childhood running from dogs.
Years later, in his research facility, George looked at the creamy substance in the mixing bowl and smiled.
“At long last, I shall have my revenge!” he cackled with glee, scooping up a dollop of the peanut butter and offering it to a dog.
He laughed a hearty laugh as the poor, dumb beast desperately licked its chops for fifteen minutes.

Pyramid Sam

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Pyramid Sam offers to take us on a tour of Giza for fifty bucks, the most authentic and comprehensive tour around, he says.
That’s way cheaper than the government guides. And he says it’s the most authentic tour, which I’m not sure what he means.
The signs say to only take tours from the government guides, but what’s the harm, right?
So, we follow Sam into his tent, and that’s when he reaches for a set of controls and sends us hurtling into the past.
Outside the tent, Ancient Egypt awaits.
I hope I bought enough batteries and memory sticks.

Jacob

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Jacob”s violin was the pride of Minsk. But that didn’t matter, because the Nazis put everyone on the trains.
The commander of the camp was also from Minsk, and he knew of Jacob. He commanded him to play for the officers during dinner.
Jacob refused, demanding to play for the workers.
So, they let him. And after a minute of playing for us, he was shot.
The commander was Klaus Gustav. Years later, I found Klaus in Cairo, and I strangled him with one of Jacob’s violin strings.
The sound of Gustav’s croaks doesn”t haunt me at all.
Only Jacob.

Drummer Boy

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I played my drum for him.
I played my best for him.
Did he like it? Did he smile?
No. He cried! He cried like a shrieking pig!
Why the hell was I playing a drum for a kid in a barn, surrounded by goats and camels and rats?
You don’t play drums for babies… you shake rattles. You pluck strings. Or play a flute.
You make goo goo noises in their faces until they clap and laugh and smile.
Stupid baby.
Probably won’t survive the night, anyway.
Hey, nobody’s watching the gold that old fart brought.
It’s mine! Sweet!

War Is Hell

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You know those letters than the Post Office digs up now and then from a World War 2 soldier writing his wife or girlfriend, but it doesn’t get delivered until fifty years later?
I found one of those under some carpet I was ripping up in the office.
Policy says to go get a supervisor to read it before delivery, so I did.
He steams it open, takes a gander, and smirks.
Blah blah blah… killed some Germans… blah blah blah… screwed a bunch of whores… blah blah blah… stole artwork…
He pulls out a lighter and burns the letter.