The night Max wore his wolf suit
And made mischief of one kind or another
His mother called him WILD THING!
And Max said “I’ll eat you up!”
While sending Max to his room
His mother had a stroke and collapsed
Max stood there, confused
He tried to wake up his mother
But she didn’t move at all
So, Max picked up the telephone
And called the emergency number.
They arrived a few minutes later
Put his mother on a stretcher
Covered her with a sheet
And took her away.
Child Services picked up Max
He never wore costumes again
Tag: book
Vulge
All you could ever hope to learn is contained beneath the robes of Professor Vulge of Crimson University.
Vulge’s shroud, opaque veil, black gloves and socks are legendary.
Not even Vulge’s grad students, who call themselves minions, remember ever seeing Vulge… or hearing him.
Vulge just listens, and either points to the next student to present, or…
Oh, that dreaded, deadly gesture to the door!
Failure! Rejection!
It isn’t a semester without news of one… two… sometimes all of Vulge’s students hurling themselves to their deaths!
The administration is aware of this.
And made tuition payable in advance, and non-refundable.
Fuss
It was another quiet day at the library, right?
Wrong.
An old couple burst in through the front door, fussing and arguing with each other loudly.
Then, the old woman grabbed the gigantic dictionary off of the reference desk, opened it to the last page, and RIPPPPPPPPPPPP! tore it out.
Sticking it in her purse, she repeated this with all the other dictionaries, and then stormed out of the building.
The old man stuck some cash into my hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Here’s some money for the damage.”
“Why?” I asked.
“She always insists on having the last word.”
Sonnet 18
I see him, wrestling through would-be Plaths, Frosts and Burkowskis at the coffeeshop:
It’s Open Mike Night, and, like a schoolchild, he’ll recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 from memory.
Dreadful.
From the stage’s barstool, he’s downright singsongy, ruining the verse, digging up Shakespeare’s grave, skullfucking the corpse…
Enough! I shout. I would rather be beaten across the face and chest with a volume of Shakespeare’s work than hear you open it and read from it!
The crowd is stunned. Shakespeare’s torturer stares blankly.
Reciting from memory, he has no volume to beat me with.
But he’s got the barstool.
I run.
More Circles
The world is a mess. And Hell is filling up quickly.
So, The Devil is adding circles to it to handle new sins.
For instance, there will be a circle for Spammers. They’ll be force-fed herbal supplements and smeared with noxious creams, giving them painfully massive erections and swollen breasts.
The rest of the damned will need to be moved to make use of the new space.
Diverting the river of fire.
Replanting the suicide wood.
Changing harpy flight paths.
And that’ll be a nightmare in logistics.
But then, it’s Hell. That’ll be a punishment for condemned change management consultants.
Myth or Legend
A myth gives a religious explanation for something, while a legend is a story told as if it were a historical event.
This is just one of a thousand rules every member of The Storymerchants Guild must learn and follow when conducting business.
There are laws about proper labeling of products and services, and stories are no different.
One must be precise, otherwise proper tariffs, taxes, and fees won’t be collected.
And The Royal Auditors are quite diligent about checking the details.
In fact, I remember one time when two goblin bards…
Wait… hold on…
(Is this Myth or Legend?)
Shuggoth
I remember back when Chunky soup said they could be eaten with a fork.
These days, you need a gun and knife.
Yeah, I know. Cream Of Shuggoth Soup is crazy, right? But it’s cheap and nutritious, so the soup kitchens in New England have been buying it by the barrel.
The shuggoth are supposed to be killed before getting chopped up and dumped in the soup, but every now and then a tentacle survives the boiling process and you end up with a regrettable incident.
Just read the label and don’t microwave the stuff.
(The magnetrons revive the things.)
Natural
Hanging over my typewriter is a famous quote:
“Be natural, my children. For the writer that is natural has fulfilled all the rules of art.”
So, I opened the window and tossed my typewriter, pens, and paper out into the street.
Leaving everything behind, I moved out of my apartment and set out for the hills.
There, in my cave, I worked on my novel, writing on tree bark using bird droppings and mud.
The publisher was shocked by my appearance, but took the submission.
And rejected it.
On the bright side, I did get cast in some GEICO commercials.
The Unforgiving Tree
As the old man sat on the stump of The Giving Tree, he pondered all that he had taken from his beloved friend.
Her leaves to make crowns.
Her apples to sell for money.
Her branches to build a house.
Her trunk to build a boat.
And what had he given her?
Nothing.
Clutching his chest, he let out a gasp, and died.
The Giving Tree laughed. “Serves you right, you greedy bastard.”
She laughed for hours, until the old man’s sons dug up her stump and carved a coffin from it, as the old man instructed in his will.
Not yet written
My mother always said that “God has not yet written the future.”
And she was right.
God never writes shit down.
Oh, He may send an angel or a burning bush to harass someone, and they’ll freak out and tell a bunch of people about it. But, really, God doesn’t write anything down.
Ever wonder why?
It’s because His handwriting is awful. Like a child holding a crayon in their fist.
And he’s too cheap to buy a voice recorder, let alone think about starting a podcast or YouTube channel.
So, He created mankind. To write shit down for him.