Tag: tragedy

River Rock

639174

Eloise noticed a strange bit of data in the mortality report.
Nobody had ever died in Rock River County on the weekend in the past forty years.
She thought it odd, even if it was a backwoods town of barely 1,000 people.
No email address for the local clinic.
She tried calling them. Busy.
When the clinic did pick up, it was the doctor’s wife. She acted as nurse and secretary.
“Earl goes hunting on weekends,” she said. “If someone dies, well, they can wait till he gets back Monday to pronounce them dead. Ain’t like they’re in a rush.”

Wands

639169

The White Mage volunteered at the local school as the band instructor. A welcome break from experiments with potions and wands.
He put away his projects, picked up his baton, and headed out the door to make the trip to the school.
Servants follow the children of the nobility into the recital hall, bearing instruments of all sizes.
They find their seats while the Mage tapped his baton on the lectern for attention.
Fireballs flew out the end, incinerating the strings section.
“No wonder why that wand wouldn’t hold a charge,” he said, servants attacking the flames with water buckets.

Stoned Dead

639175

The five of us sitting around the table, her pacing back and forth asking us why.
It’s been less than an hour since she died, but her ghost is talking to all of us already.
Usually, if a ghost will show up, it takes a week.
When the spirit is strong or the death is particularly
violent, it’ll bounce off of Heaven and echo quickly.
Drinking a lot or smoking a bunch of dope makes it easier to sense them.
Her purse was full of weed. Couldn’t let that go to waste, right?
We’ll save a little for the funeral.

Poseidon

639158

None of the other Poseidon The Sea Gods at water parks had problems, but then, they were just actors.
The One True Poseidon lay on the couch, shaking.
“The pills aren’t working,” he tells his analyst. “Neptune came out during my act at Sea World again.”
“What happened?” asked Dr. Moggs.
“I speared a kid with my trident. The lawyers are erasing the tape and blaming the kid for leaning on the rail.”
The doctor made notes as the once-mighty sea god moaned in agony, mumbling “Get out of my head” and rocking back and forth like a terrified child.

The Rider

639159

They may be hideous in appearance, but no goblin would be caught being rude.
“Sears,” says the creature. “And your name is?”
The topiary, a shrub groomed to look like a green poodle, said nothing.
“I need to be in Waco by sunrise,” said Sears, and he hopped on the back of the topiary. “Let us ride.”
For all the shouting, the topiary didn’t budge an inch.
The morning dew settles on the goblin’s frozen body, turned to stone by the daylight.
“Who put this ugly thing out here?” said the groundskeeper, knocking the goblin to pieces with a trowel.

The Camp

639158

I saw him in a bar. He was the bartender.
Turned out he owned the place.
Thirty years ago, he had a gun to my head, laughing as he pulled the trigger.
The gun was empty, the bullets fired at my family.
All dead, there in the middle of the camp.
Here. Now.
I asked for a beer, he put a glass in front of me.
I drank, pulled out a knife, and stabbed him in the chest.
“How’s it feel to die in front of your enemy?” I ask.
He laughed and said “Ask yourself. The beer is poisoned.”

The Wall

639158

Just a black angle in the ground, etched marble with so many names.
You could jog past it in less than a minute, nothing but a blur.
The flags at the base of each piece, the flowers.
Boots and candles. Cigarettes and flasks.
It’s the people that make you slow down and stop.
Less and less each year, parents too old to make the trip. Or gone themselves.
Children all grown up. They have children of their own. Easier to just let them learn about it in school.
The wall’s still there.
What was it for? What did we learn?

Chipmunk

639158

I mourned your death, O Furry Little Creature – so small and cute you were.
Day after day.
Year after year.
Century after century.
This ritual never changes.
I hold out the little peanut, you see it and stand up, sniffing the air.
I shake it. You creep closer, slowly, wary.
Almost close enough now. One paw reaches. I toss the peanut behind you.
You start to flee, but you stop. Sniff.
You grab it and scurry away.
To the road. The highway. A truck is coming, but you do not see it!
Splat!
I will miss you, my furry friend.

Miss November

639177

In the old days, you ran out of film.
Now, with these digital cameras, your battery is always dying.
Miss November passes out, her nose bleeding from snorting enough lines of cocaine to line Ebbets Field.
They got enough pictures to last her shelf life, every angle, every expression.
Everything uploaded, scanned, rendered, and ready with a single click of the mouse.
Backdrops and shadows are her passport, just lay her over, matte, and print.
“What were her dislikes?” asks the publisher, lighting his pipe.
The coroner suggests hard linoleum, shaking his head at the corpse on the bathroom floor.

Vet

639153

Bo spent two years in Sadr City.
Some bearded fuck was running the place.
The government gave this fuck guns and money to keep the peace, but this asshole used them for all sorts of other shit.
Women suicide bombers. Those were the worst.
Stick a bunch of crazy shit in their heads, put a bomb under their robes, and tell them to shriek like hell if anyone tried to search them.
All it takes is one. Just one.
Bo came back in a bag last week.
The bearded fuck is still there, making women crazy and giving them bombs.