A stranger among us?
We board our canoes and row out to The Island of The Great Statue.
She is The Goddess Of The Golden Door, and she watches over we survivors of The Last War.
Her book, brand, and crown held high above us all.
“Look upon her, stranger!” we say. “Pray she accepts you!”
Once ashore, we drag him to the altar and sing:
“O, Lady Colossus, lift your lamp, and accept this wretched refuse to your Golden Door!”
Then, the Judge thrusts his knife into the stranger’s heart.
We board the canoes again, and row for home.
Tag: dystopia
The Judge
The judge put on his best robe, checked it in the mirror, and walked into the courtroom.
Streamers and balloons shouting HAPPY BIRTHDAY! were arranged around his bench and the jury box.
The courthouse’s best punchbowl was filled with what was supposed to be a simple red punch, but his bailiff was notorious for spiking it every year.
The bailiff’s wink confirmed it.
And then there was the cake… biggest, fanciest one he’d ever seen.
That’s when he realized… where was everybody else?
The guests? The partiers?
He shrugged, issued a flurry of bench warrants, and tried the punch.
Delicious!
Paris Rehab
Remember that cokehead heiress actress chick?
You know, the spoiled bitch who went around with a little dog in her purse?
They checked her into rehab again.
Same old shit:
Get wrecked.
Get headlines.
Get clean.
Get out.
Get wrecked again.
We did our best to get her into Betty Ford, but they put her here.
Shit.
But this time, we tried something new.
We ignored the chick and worked on the dog.
Poor beast was traumatized by all the fast cars, parties, and drugs.
Teacup Chihuahuas shake, but not like this.
We’ll get him adopted.
(But the chick’s hopeless.)
Diversity
The black-cloaked figure slid the clipboard back across the desk.
“No,” it whispered.
The HR rep pushed the clipboard back to the assassin.
“I’m sorry, but we need you to fill out the form. Regulations require it for diversity and fairness purposes. We can’t be seen to discriminate based on race or gender or sexual preference.”
The clipboard slid back.
“No,” the figure whispered. “You pay me, I kill someone. No questions asked.”
K-THUNK! A knife appeared out of nowhere, pinning the clipboard to the desk.
The HR rep scribbled “ALL OF THE ABOVE” and stamped “HIRED” on the form.
Crazy
Every bench in the park across from City Hall has a homeless person on it.
I feel bad for these lonely and crazy people.
I can’t cure their craziness.
I can’t give them all homes.
But maybe I can make them a little less lonely.
So, I’m petitioning the city to get rid of half of the benches.
That way, instead of each getting their own bench, they have to share them with someone else.
Then they’ll not be lonely anymore. They’ll have someone to sit with.
Why don’t I sit with them?
What do you think I am? Crazy?
The Garden
I grew up in the country, but I live in the city now.
Can’t afford a house, so it’s apartment life for me.
If there’s a excuse for a patio, I grow a pocket garden.
If not, I hang as many windowboxes as I can.
Sometimes, I get roof space and garden up there, or out in a community garden.
But I’d rather not. Some folks don’t like the kind of plants I raise.
The feeling’s mutual.
Yes, the flowers are beautiful. Go ahead. Try to take one.
Oh, did you get stuck?
Here’s the antidote. Better drink it quickly.
Ken and Barbie
His name was Ken, short for “Telekenetic.”
Her name was Barbie. It wasn’t short for anything.
Barbie would bring things to Ken, and he’d lift them with his mind.
Barbie laughed.
So did the researchers, watching from behind one-way glass and through cameras all throughout the testing area.
They called it “The Dream House.”
Ironic, since Ken and Barbie didn’t dream. They gave them drugs so they wouldn’t dream.
The body paralyzes muscles during sleep, but it doesn’t disable telekinetic abilities.
Before the drugs, everything would fly around the room, the building would shake.
Now, they just wet their beds.
The Patient Patient
Seth ran into the storeroom, slammed the door shut, and pushed a table against it.
WHAM! A zombie hit the door, rattling Seth.
The lock held. For now.
He pulled out a cigarette, remembered he was inside, oh screw it, the world’s ending, right?
He reached for his lighter… damn it, where… where… no lighter.
More pounding. Loud moaning.
“Want a smoke?” he had asked Dr. Grant. “Not like these guys are going anywhere, right?”
Oh, how he wrong he’d been. All he wanted now was just one smoke.
Grant had his lighter.
Seth moaned. And the zombies moaned louder.
Fireworks
The kids found some leftover fireworks in the shed.
They’re leftover from July… or maybe New Year’s.
I guess you use white for New Year’s, red white and blue for July.
Both scare the crap out of the cows and horses and chickens.
The labels say “ADULT SUPERVISION REQUIRED” on them, so they got Billy Williams.
He’s the retarded farmhand from the Baker farm. Acts like he’s twelve, but he’s an adult, right?
The fields lit up quickly, the fires sweeping across houses and barns, leaping across roads.
The school, the church, the market: all gone.
They will inherit ashes.
Wrestling with your conscience
From the look on your face, I can tell that you’re wrestling with your conscience, right?
Me, I wrestle with my conscience out in the open. Usually somewhere outdoors with plenty of room, nothing breakable around.
Once, I dated a woman who’d wrestle her conscience in a Jello Pit while wearing a bikini.
(She tried mud once. Things just got messy.)
She made a lot of money from doing that act at bars looking to bring in a crowd.
Then came a big television deal with ESPN, left me for some Hollywood dude.
And that’s when her conscience completely vanished.