Category: My stories

The Good Place

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After days in the library and on the Internet, Bobby turned in his paper.
Time and time again, rich people have treated poor people like crap with the promise of eternity in a good place if they put up with that crap.
The threat of eternity in a bad place prevents the poor people from treating the rich people like crap.
Priests are paid by rich people to come up with a lot of crap about the good place and the bad place, then shovel it at the poor.
Miss Krabapel sighed, lit another cigarette, and gave it an A.

India

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Just as Christopher Columbus landed in the New World and thought he’d reached India, Arturo Gustavani sailed for India and thought he had reached the New World.
Looking around the marketplaces full of rare spices, Arturo threw down his voluminous hat and cursed.
“Where are the worthless flint arrowheads and corn?”
Merchants brought him the finest silk and woven carpets, but he dismissed these riches and inquired about crude fibrous mats interlaced with bird feathers.
Calling the expedition a failure, Arturo headed back to the ship and was clubbed to death by his crew.
They returned and retired wealthy men.

Phantom

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I wake up and struggle with the call button.
“NURSE! NURSE!”
The morning nurse arrives at my bed, taps the IV, and checks the bandages on my hands.
“Fingers still hurt?” she asks.
“It’s like they’re being dipped in fire!” I groan. “Please, make it stop!”
I try to move my hands, but they’re strapped down to the rails on the bed.
“No, we’re not going to loosen those,” she said. “Remember the last time we did that?”
She loosens a bandage and I look.
Bloody stumps.
“Your toes still hurt?”
That’s when I remember… I bit those off, too.

You only die twice. Or three times. (How about four?)

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Resurrection procedures have never been entirely reliable, but over time they’ve become more reliable than longshot treatments such as chemotherapy for advanced pancreatic cancer.
The insurance companies won’t cover the procedure.
And they’ll drop coverage for the revived patient, too.
“Our responsibility ends at death,” they say.
But they won’t pay off on life insurance claims, either.
Congress subpoenaed the heads of the insurance companies for a hearing, grilled them for several days, and passed a set of toothless legislation concerning the matter.
Since then, have you heard of a Senator or Representative dying in office?
Me either.
Strange, that.

My Medicine

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I wake up, naked, surrounded by my servants.
They have strapped and chained me to a table.
I have a good view of the ceiling. Daylight through the windows.
I don’t taste blood. My hands aren’t sticky.
Still…
“I forgot my medicine again, didn’t I?” I asked.
“Yes,” said my secretary.
“How many died this time?”
“Seven, I think. You made quite a mess.”
They release the chains and straps, and I get up.
“Thank you for washing me off.”
“You made quite a mess.”
I must remember to take my medicine.
Or my prescription will change… to silver bullets.

In or Out

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“In or out?” shouted the bully.
The third-graders along the wall lifted up their shirts to show off their bellybuttons.
Today, he was punching the Ins.
Kid after kid, he’d look down and either take a swing at their gut or they’d run away.
The last kid on the wall didn’t lift up his shirt.
So, the bully did it for him.
And saw nothing.
“Test-tuber!” The bully pulled out a knife. “I can fix that.”
The kid pulled out a neurodisruptor and stunned the bully.
“Not test-tube,” said the kid. “Arcturan researchpod.”
He reported the incident and teleported out

Rock on

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Headquarters said to throw a curveball on the application form and then ask people about their answer in the interview.
So, I added a line asking “Paper, Scissors, or Rock?”
Most people write “Rock” on their application.
(Some just circle it.)
I throw out all the Paper, Scissors and Rock responses.
Stacks of Harvard and Yale grads tumble into my wastebin.
One is left.
Their response? “Bacon.”
I hired them blind.
No interview, no reference check.
Two weeks later, we carried our stuff out in cardboard boxes together.
I needed a drink, but it’s no surprise that they needed bacon.

Saints

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Last year, the Catholic Church performed an audit on all relics throughout the world.
Concerned, they sent out teams to authenticate as many as possible.
The report detailed forgeries and fakes, but there was a curious situation with Saint Miraculon, the Wonder Machine.
After the explosion at the power plant had fried his original processor, saving dozens of workers from death by electrocution, it was enshrined in San Jose.
But a backup processor had been installed in the rebuilt chassis, keeping Miraculon 2.0 running.
“Ignore that,” said the Pope. “Will someone explain exactly how St. Ignatius had five authentic femurs?”

The Cough

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“Forget this ever happened,” said Judy, grabbing her clothes off the floor and getting dressed quickly. “Forget I was here.”
So, Robert took two green pills, showered, and forgot.
The next day, he had a doctor’s appointment, and what he thought was only a cough turned out to be something serious.
“We’re lucky to catch this early,” said the doctor, giving Robert a second shot of antibiotics. “It’s a new strain going around. Deadly stuff.”
He took the rest of the day off, missing the call from the office to let him know that Judy had died at her desk.

Fizzy

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I never understood why people like those fizzy poprocks candies so much.
Then, someone watched how I was pouring the packet into my mouth and swallowing it.
“Put a little bit on your tongue,” she said.
“And?” I asked.
“Just let it sit there for a bit.”
So, I did, and that’s when I experienced the fizzling and popping flavors for the first time.
“When do they stop?” I asked.
But I couldn’t hear her answer. The popping had grown to a deafening, rumbling roar.
My tongue was numb, and blood started to run from the corners of my mouth.