Tag: tragedy

Losing Faith

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His Holiness woke up after surgery to find himself watched by his assistant.
“We prayed for your recovery,” said his secretary. “We are delighted that The Lord has seen fit to deliver you back to us.”
The Pope raised an eyebrow. “It was the doctors, not The Lord,” he said tersely.
The assistant left the room to speak to the lead surgeon. “I fear you cut too deep,” he said.
The surgeon agreed. “That region of the brain is strongly tied to Faith. Damage can result in this behavior.”
“Or death,” suggested the assistant. “Make it painless and quick, please.”

Victory Square

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No more bombers.
Silence.
We walk to the center of town, stepping over bodies and fallen streetlamps.
Collapsed buildings line the path.
More bodies in the park, trees with shattered leaves.
“Victory Square” says a monument, half of a horse.
Where is the rest of it? Where is the rider?
“Centaur,” says my guide. “Nikos The Wise.”
He tries to tell me the story of the centaur, but it’s just gibberish.
We’ve come across no other survivors.
So I pull out my pistol, shoot him, and then call headquarters on my radio.
“Total victory,” I say. “Bring in the transports.”

Under Observation

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We watch everything you do.
We listen to everything you say.
We read everything you write.
We know everywhere you go.
And after all this time, we’ve come to the simple conclusion that you’re the most boring person on Earth.
You don’t do anything interesting at all. We haven’t filed a single report on you in all the time you’ve been under observation.
You’re an easy assignment. Boring, but easy.
So we’re just going to ignore the fact that you’re dead and just keep filing the same reports over and over.
You won’t mind.
Because you’re dead.
That’s… our secret.

Billybob Steak

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It was the biggest steak Paul had seen in his life.
“Eat all of the Billybob Big Steak, and you get it for free,” said the waiter.
“Really?”
“Really.”
So, Paul picked up his fork and knife and went to work.
He didn’t think he could do it, but after an hour there was one bite of steak left.
He put it on his fork, stuck it in his mouth, and swallowed.
“I win!” he said, and the piece of steak caught in his throat.
As hard as the waiter tried, Paul still choked to death.
Billybob catered the funeral.

Forgive me, father, for I have provided adequate signage…

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A drowned monk was found on the riverbank, a mile downstream from the bridge under repair.
A few orange cones were found in the water, too. Blown away by high winds.
The foreman pointed to the sign in the middle of the road that said BRIDGE OUT and sighed. “Reflective lettering. Visible from two hundred feet.”
The monastery sent a representative to claim the body.
When told about how his fellow priest died, the man wrote: “Father Rowan was blind.”
The foreman took off his hardhat, growled, and went up to the sign. “It’s also in Braille at the bottom.”

Irish Bowling

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You hear that sound?
Dull thunder, passing every home on the lane.
Finnegan O’Hara’s out bowling the roads again.
Irish Bowling. Throw the lead shot along the road, fewest throws wins.
Champion of Cork County five years running.
I swear, the man can hook along any curve you throw his way, any road, any where.
But throwing at midnight? Alone? Nobody to shout clear the path?
Madness.
And then… I hear the honk of the horn, the screeching of tires, and the sickening thud.
They brought O’Hara into the clinic at dawn.
They never found his shot.
To Finnegan! Cheers!

Training

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Fur glides under his fingers. With every stroke of his hand, he feels the deep purring.
Muscles tense, skin twitches and ripples.
Over the years, the cat and the human teach each other what delights them.
A nip here, a warning there.
Bargaining.
In time, they have struck a balance, a routine.
But with enough variations to keep from becoming dull.
And then, tragedy. Loneliness.
One without the other. All that was between them is lost.
Cries of mourning, wandering from room to room.
A hand reaches down to stroke the fur.
Not the same.
But he can be trained.

The Sins

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They killed their mother, said the man. My wife. My love.
You have seven to love where you once had one, said the priest. What will you name them?
As he watched the casket descend, he decided on the seven deadly sins.
Over the years, they grew to earn their names, and to detest their father.
In the end, it was Socordia, the lazy one, that killed him.
“If you’d only had given those rollerskates to me instead of her, I wouldn’t have left them lying around for you to trip over,” said Invidia.
Laughing, Ira burned the house down.

Idiot Tax

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The Idiot Tax collector stumbles from door to door, shaking his burlap sack and shouting at the top of his lungs.
Four in the morning. He always comes at four.
I watch a door open and a broken toaster fly out.
He catches it, grunts, and shambles off to the next house.
It’s against the law to kill an Idiot Tax collector. Even by accident.
My rusty butcher’s knife is in his chest.
“I tried to hand it to him,” I say. “Honest.”
I cry. I whine. I babble incoherently.
I, the new Idiot, pick up the sack and howl.

And back again

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The princess needed to smuggle gold from one castle to the other without thieves knowing.
Ruplestiltskin was long banished into nothingness, but his spinning-wheel remained.
So, she spun the wheel backwards, turning gold into straw.
She sent out the straw with farmers, and then the princess with her spinning wheel afterwards.
Brilliant, she thought.
The next day, the carts were loaded up with the straw and sent out.
Soon after, the princess began her journey.
Midway there, she found that bandits had struck the caravan, bodies and straw scattered in all directions.
She wept for the gold, and started gathering.