The Sermonizer has been priest of Steamtown for a hundred years, presiding over weddings and funerals, delivering the Sunday sermon without fail.
Until today.
Pressure tank exploded overnight. Punchcards strewn everywhere.
Looking down from the equipment loft, I stare at Sermonizer’s marionette, slumped over the pulpit.
I climb down the stairs, and I lift it.
Not heavy at all, really.
I climb back up and tug at the support ropes.
Sermonizer wobbles to his feet.
“Dearly beloved,” I groan loudly.
Every child mimics Sermonizer in Steamtown, you know.
Clean up the cards, Deacon, and ring the bells.
Time for church.
Tag: childhood
Bystander
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Who names a child Innocent Bystander?
I look over the victim’s medical records and shake my head.
A car jumped the curb and mowed down a bunch of kids on the sidewalk.
They all suffered broken arms and legs except for one: little Innocent here, laying on the gurney.
His parents have asked for no autopsy. It’s obvious that the driver is to blame for the kid’s death, right?
Except that he’s not.
The kid was standing in the middle of the street, and the driver swerved to avoid him.
Afterwards, Innocent was beaten to death by an angry mob.
Draw a red line
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I watch my daughter drawing a red line.
She started drawing on her sketchbook, but ran off of the paper, along the floor…
And right out the door.
I shouted for her to come back, but why worry? She’ll run out of ink or get tired…
One hour… two hours…
I get up and shout again.
No answer.
So, I follow the red line.
That was seventeen years and ten thousand miles ago.
You can’t see the line?
Oh, it’s there. Just too faint for you to see.
But I can.
And I will follow it until I find her.
The Candles
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When Bobby turned five, he wanted his cake decorated like that “Harry Potter” series of books he’d seen, but was too young to read or watch the movies.
“No,” his mother said.
(When you’re five, you don’t take no for an answer.)
So, his mother made a cake with a demon made out of chocolate cookies inside an icing pentagram, a candle at each star point.
At the party, all of Bobby’s friends sang, and then he blew out the candles.
“What did you wish for?” his mother asked.
The demon on the cake opened its eyes.
“That,” grinned Bobby.
Child Actors
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The problem with child actors is that they eventually group up.
But if a series is popular, you want it to go on forever.
Recasting the parts is risky. Even with surgery, no two kids are alike.
We’ve tried cloning, but DNA only goes so far. The clones can be just as different as a surgically-altered double.
Computer-generated actors provide a consistent look and sound, but they’re horribly expensive to create and maintain. And they’re not as expressive as real humans.
Growth-suppression hormones are the answer. Freeze them at the age you want.
Kids love candy, you know.
Drugged candy.
The Ants
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All day long, Jimmy would burn ants with a magnifying glass, grinning madly.
He did this for weeks on end, until the ants all vanished.
Did he burn them all?
Hardly.
At night, the ants went into the tool shed, gathering up metal and lawn care chemicals.
With tiny ant hammers and anvils, they pounded and shaped until, at last, they were ready.
The sun woke Jimmy up, and he dressed quickly to go out to play.
As he stared at the anthill, it erupted into a deadly green cloud.
The ants on the roof wove their antenna with joy.
Astonished
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Nobody was astonished when Missy Johnson ended up in prison.
She was the black sheep of the family, the first kid to be sent to reform school kindergarten.
When other children were learning to count and watching Sesame Street, she was running guns to Belize and ruled the city’s drug lords with an iron fist.
In between Nap Times, of course.
Pretty soon, all organized crime in the world was under Missy’s thumb, and her babysitters became her lieutenants, helping her run a global prostitution ring.
And then, prison.
She turned herself in voluntarily.
Safer behind bars, opulent accommodations nonetheless.
Creative Juices
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We let the children play with their toys and draw with crayons for an hour.
Then, the valves open and knockout gas puts them to sleep.
Nap time.
When they wake up, they have no memory of our hooking up the spinal shunts and draining them of their creative juices.
Looking around the room, they pick up the crayons and stick them in their mouths or put them up their noses.
The toys are used to smash other toys or hit other kids.
Eventually, they learn to play and draw again.
And we are ready to harvest more creative juices.
Father
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Sitting here on the park bench, watching the kids run and play, I feel like I have been missing out on the joys of fatherhood.
What would it be like to raise a child? Would all my doubts and fears fade as I take on that role? (Or, I suppose, the role take over me.)
No. The doctors warned me about thinking like this, trying again.
My hands clench and release, over and over.
Stop.
Not again. No more blood. No more screaming.
I get up slowly, walk back to my workshop, and stare at the puppet-boy.
Stay wood, Pinocchio.
Mean Streak
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Sally Marie Simmons was known as “Sally Mean Streak” long before the day the prom queen’s hair fell out.
One vote was the difference, but that’s all it took for Mean Streak to lash out.
As Jessica Baker rain screaming through the halls, her hair leaving a trail behind her, Mean Streak was scanning the paper ballots.
She had insisted on voters having to write out the names instead of check a box.
Then, she fed in stacks of handwritten essays.
Handwriting samples for the computer to analyze.
A list of names appeared on the screen.
Sally grinned and laughed.