Tag: tragedy

Caulk

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I stood over the sheriff with my caulking gun, a ribbon of white goo still swinging from the nozzle.
The sheriff was confused. “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get this crap out of my shirt?”
Not hard at all if you know what you’re doing.
You see, I run the town’s drycleaning shop.
Caulk is easy to get out of a shirt. Easier than blood.
That’s why I gunfight with a caulking gun.
He gets up, draws his gun, and shoots me.
Great. A huge bloodstain on my shirt.
This’ll be a bitch to fix.

The Knife Tossers

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Two men toss a sharp knife back and forth.
They catch it each time.
One man tries to catch it in his teeth, and with a head-spin he comes up smiling, blade in his mouth.
He tosses it to the other man, who leaps and kicks at the knife, catching it in his toes.
This goes on for hours, until one man is lying on the sand, knife buried in his chest.
The other man pulls it out, wipes the blood off on a sleeve, and says “So, what do you think of my suggestion to flip a coin now?”

Cupid’s Arrows

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That’s not a tattoo on my shoulder.
It’s a scar.
Damn Cupid got his arrows mixed up with hunting arrows.
I saw my true love, worked up my courage, and took an arrow in the chest.
He missed my heart, thankfully.
Unlike my true love. She was dead within a second.
But then, we both were hit with hunting arrows, not with Cupid’s.
Were we hit by Cupid’s arrows, I’d believe it.
Maybe it was just the heat of the moment.
Cupid apologized at the funeral, offered to hit us again with the right arrows.
“What’s the point?” I said.

No Clue

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From the moment I was called on, it was obvious: I had no clue.
Everybody else has a clue, but when Teacher asked where mine was, I said “I forgot.”
The other kids, with their bloody knives and smoking guns and fingerprints, laughing at me.
Shrinking into my seat, the laughter just gets worse.
I snapped. I went on a murderous rampage with the various weapons in the classroom.
When the smoke cleared, I was the last alive.
That’s when I realized… I had a clue after all.
Many clues.
Sitting there, on the desk.
I give myself an A.

Obsidian Falls

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Obsidian Falls is really in Oklahoma, but through a surveyor’s error and a history of stubborn city councilors, they remained a Kansas municipality.
Mapmakers never could find a solution that satisfied the residents. Usually, they’d mark the region as Oklahoma, include Obsidian Falls on Oklahoma maps, and ignore the protests and death threats.
So, Obsidian Falls moved.
Every brick, every tree, every sidewalk and every fence.
It took over a year to complete, block by block vanishing and reappearing 3 miles North.
The surveyor didn’t have the heart to tell them they were still 2 miles short of their goal.

Country Music Star

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There’s a country music star on television.
She’s standing there with a guitar, but she doesn’t play the guitar.
She doesn’t play anything.
Doesn’t write anything either. Someone else writes the songs.
She doesn’t even sing her own songs. Someone else sings them for her and she just mouths the words.
That’s not even her up there. Someone stood in for her, and nobody noticed the difference.
When she won a Grammy, she didn’t bother showing up to the ceremony to pick it up.
They filed a missing persons report that night.
She was never found.
Isn’t this music great?

Mr. Fist Around My Throat

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My throat hurts.
It feels like someone clenched a fist around it.
But you can’t see anyone with a fist on my throat.
Maybe it’s my old imaginary friend.
His name was Mr. Fist Around My Throat.
Looking back, he wasn’t much of an imaginary friend. He was more of an imaginary bully. And he beat the crap out of me day and night.
I got even with him, though. I took medicine which stopped my imagining him, and he vanished.
Now he’s back.
Are these the right pills?
I knew I should have drilled a hole in my head.

Munge’s Menagerie

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Through an error in programming, Professor Munge created a robot that could read, but was incapable of writing or expressing words in audio form.
Over the course of a year, Munge’s lab produced a series of mechanical oddities, such as robots without ocular sensors but powerful image processing and analysis capabilities, or the exploration robot with a single articulated limb with which the robot could barely drag its bulk around a pen surrounded by rails.
Students would come by to gawk at the cruel menagerie, some laughing, but others worried. Or weeping.
“Compassion,” said Munge. “Cannot be taught. Or built.”

Burning Hands

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Both of my hands are wrapped in bandages.
I don’t know why I held them over the fire.
It didn’t hurt at first. Then, it hurt. A lot.
The skin and nerves are gone from what muscle and bone remains.
I can’t tell how many fingers I have left. The bandages keep me from seeing them.
When they change the bandages, they won’t let me see.
“You do not want to see them yet,” the nurse says.
She puts another pill in my mouth, holds up a cup with a straw, and says everything will be fine.
And I sleep.

Sexy Burrito Of War

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At a fast food Mexican shithole, well past midnight, I’m looking up and down the menu.
Breakfast tacos. It’s what I always get-
WAIT!
What the fuck is a Sexy Burrito Of War?
I ask the guy behind the counter, and I can see his knuckles go white as he grips the register.
“You want the Sexy Burrito Of War? Seriously?”
No, I just want to know what the fuck it is.
Maybe I’ll want it if it sounds good. Maybe not.
I have to sign a release form. Run on a treadmill.
Maybe I’ll just have some breakfast tacos.