Tag: mystery

Sunset

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It’s been a long day.
I’ve got my beer and my hat, sitting out in the back yard, listening to a whole lot of nothing, and waiting for the sun to set.
Waiting. And waiting.
Lemme check my watch…
It’s way past time for sunset.
And my beer is empty.
Time’s passed.
If the sun’s gonna take its time setting, well, I’m gonna enjoy it.
But just to check, I put my empty at the end of my lawn chair’s shadow.
If it hasn’t moved by the time I finish my other beer, well, I’ll call…
Who do I call?

Madman

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We drag the madman out of the basement and let him loose in the back yard.
The neighborhood kids squeal with joy and wave their butterfly nets.
“ONE! TWO! THREE!”
The madman hears the counting and remembers…
He needs to flee!
“NINE! TEN! ELEVEN!”
Over the fence he goes, and he”s loose in the streets. He jumps over hedges, paws at a car door, kicks over lawn ornaments…
EIGHTEEN! NINETEEN! TWENTY!
The kids swarm through the gate, laughing and cheering.
They catch the madman at a phone booth, trying to call Saturn.
Perhaps, next time, we’ll release two of them.

Telegraph

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Somewhere in the basement of the records office, I swear, you could hear clicking.
I dug around, opened up an old wooden crate, and found a telegraph key.
As I held it up to the light, looking for some kind or label, the switch clacked.
I nearly dropped it.
Maybe it just… you know…
It clacked again. And again.
Pretty soon, it was tapping a sequence. I put it on the crate’s lid, pulled out a notebook, and wrote it down.
I’m not good with Morse Code, but I swear it said: “Get me out of here.”
Where?
And who?

UFO

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Hubert was bored, so he picked up a camera and hucked a pie tin through the air to make a UFO photograph.
After sixteen reports to the FBI, they stopped taking his calls.
Later that month, gigantic pie tins floated down from the sky and landed in Hubert”s cornfield.
Hubert remembered The Boy Who Cried Wolf and realized he was completely and totally fucked.
Then, he remembered” he was the pie-eating champion of Bucktooth County ten years running.
Hubert ran towards the pie tins and… was blasted into smithereens by alien robots.
Come Fall, someone else will be pie-eating champion.

Ask A Grampa

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All the ATMs are gone.
These days, whenever you need money, just ask a Grampa for it.
He”ll pull out his roll of bills, licks his thumb, and gives you one last look before he peels off what you need.
Need to deposit your cash? Just give it to a Grampa, and it goes right in his pocket.
There”s always a Grampa around when you need one.
Little, fuzzy-eared wrinkled old men, puttering around, smiling wide, enjoying the beautiful weather.
Nobody would ever think to rob a Grampa. After all, he”s our Grampa!
We love Grampa, and he loves us.

Exile

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Forget cruises or eco-hikes.
This summer, going into exile is all the rage.
A good travel agent can put the whole package together.
A military coup.
The Swiss bank accounts.
That midnight flight to… where?
Well, whatever country will take you. Bribes and allies go a long way, you know.
Just make sure you can trust them. Otherwise, you may find your deposit turned over to the new regime or stolen by your travel agent.
And who wants to spend their exile on a godforsaken rock like Napoleon did on St. Helena?
If only he had a better travel agent.

Penguins

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I’m sitting at home, reading a book.
There’s a knock at the door.
I get up, walk to the door, and open it.
There’s penguins there. Ten of them.
They have lit torches. And pitchforks.
One steps forward. I think he’s the leader.
He says… CUT IT OUT!
I say… WHAT?
He says… CUT IT OUT! NOW!
The others nod their beaks.
I look at them, confused. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT
He checks his Blackberry, looks at the mailbox.
OH. SORRY. WRONG PLACE.
They leave.
I pick up the book.
“Cooking With Penguins”
Damn it.

Call To Dinner

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Jeremiah beats the triangle with a metal rod and calls us to dinner.
The table is piled high with all sorts of dishes he’s prepared for us.
How he manages such feasts, we have no idea. He doesn’t let us in his kitchen, and the only time we see the food is when it’s already out on the table and he’s ringing the dinner bell.
Every so often, someone gets curious, and they say they’re going to find out.
Too curious, because the next time Jeremiah rings the bell and we all come to dinner, they aren’t there.
Say Grace.

The Rails

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It’s been fifty years since a train last came through here.
Still, the villagers keep the tracks clear, the rails rust-free, and they replace the wood ties every few years.
They think if they keep the tracks ready, a train will come some day.
“If you put food out on your porch, you get cats,” says the mayor. “So we figure the same for trains, right?”
At night, I like to lie on the tracks and look up at the stars.
As a kid, I heard the whistle, the soft ringing of the rails, the engines…
Lay back and listen.

Hit The Road, Jack

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It was time for Jack to go.
When it’s time, it’s time.
He packed his things. They fit in a single cardboard box.
Jack never owned more than he could pack into a cardboard box.
If he ever bought anything, he’d give away something about the same size.
A new book for an old book. New shoes for old shoes.
What he bought to eat, he ate. The pantry was empty.
Balance.
He picked up the box and walked out the door.
Another man named Jack walked in, carrying a cardboard box.
A new Jack for an old Jack.
Balance.