Category: My stories

Teleport

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Professor Blaine had proven that the teleporter worked on inanimate objects and living things many times, but the government had yet to give him approval to test it on humans.
So, one evening, he volunteered himself.
Every atom and quantum-state in his physical body were moved from the first scanner-pad to the second.
But the system failed to transport his soul.
When the professor read the letter from the Defense Department, commandeering his research for weapons research, instead of tossing it into the trash as he’d done to the first letter they’d sent, he shrugged and signed the transfer orders.

Cinco

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We prepare for Cinco de Mayo.
Putting boards over the windows, pulling the cars into the garage and locking it.
We don’t bother gardening in April anymore. It would just get torn up and thrown into our driveway or on the roof.
The press doesn’t call it rioting anymore. They keep saying it’s a peaceful demonstration. A parade.
Say that to our former neighbors, who watched their homes burn down.
We got lucky that year. Only the shed got hit.
The fence had new razor-wire on it.
Pull the gates shut, and load your shotgun.
And happy Cinco de Mayo.

The Werewolf

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Those damn cops had shot at us.
I lucked out, but the Werewolf didn’t.
The angry beast growls and licks his wounds, picking out bullets with his claws and tossing them into the gutter.
“They can’t kill me,” it says. “But it still fuckin’ hurts.”
I nod and watch the wounds.
The bleeding stops, and within a minute they’ve scarred over.
“Drowning is bad, but fire’s the worst.”
“Try taking a stake to your lung,” I say. “They don’t teach anatomy worth a damn anymore.”
He washes the blood off with the rain, and we head back down the alley.

Puppet Regime

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We watch the enemy’s soldiers march into the capital.
Buildings burn. The Resistance is crushed, strung up from the castle walls.
Not by their necks, but by their hands, feet, and joints.
It is one things to be forced to follow the command of a puppet regime, but being told to bow to a marionette regime is even more humiliating.
The old Prime Minister is pranced around the massive stage with a club in his hand.
“WHERE’S THE BABY?” shrieks the enemy from the battlements in his best Punch falsetto.
Fiendish monsters! We will prevail, and make hand-puppets of them.

The End Of Miss April

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Today is the last day I will see Miss April.
Tomorrow, I will flip the calendar page and bury her against the wall.
Miss May will try to comfort me, but when I stare at her, I will be thinking of Miss April.
However, just as Miss April got me to eventually forget about Miss March, I suppose Miss May will eventually get me to forget about Miss April.
What about Miss February and Miss January?
Haven’t thought about them in months. Really.
Okay, I’m lying. I miss them too.
I knew I should have gotten a calendar with kittens.

Digging To China

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Little Joey’s digging a hole to China in the back yard.
He was watching the historical archives again, found Dennis The Menace, and now he’s digging.
No, he won’t reach China. That’s just silly.
I checked the orbital colony’s schematics for power and communications lines.
Nope. Instead, he’ll reach the drainage and nutrient systems in another meter or so. Then, a bulkhead.
That’s when I noticed the access panel. Leads to a conference room.
Bob Wu found a costume in the theater group’s storage bin.
He’ll welcome Joey to a holographic China, release the sleep-gas, and send him back up.

You’ll fit right in

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The Berkman was a Class Three cruiser, and they needed a new research analyst.
“What happened to the last one?” I asked.
“That’s what our next mission is,” said the captain.
I bought life insurance for the wife and signed on for the mission.
As the ship scanned black holes and missing-matter, I looked through the Berkman’s logs and the researcher’s notes, but as far as I could tell, the crew had killed and eaten him.
There’s a knock on my door.
“You’re needed in the galley,” says the captain.
I suppose this is the end.
Enjoy the cash, dear.

Warning Signs

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My boss handed me an assignment: design a warning sign for nuclear waste that will make sense to anyone digging it up a million years from now.
My first few efforts focused on skulls, crossbones, frowny faces, festering zombies, and other symbols of slow, painful death.
Then, I realized. If these people of the future don’t understand simple English, that means our country’s been conquered by China. Or overwhelmed by those Mexican immigrants.
Well, screw that. This is my country, dammit.
That’s when I started drawing smiley faces and people with shovels, happily digging, and pouring barrels over their heads.

Mother Nature

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It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature, but it’s much easier since she slipped on a riverbank and hit her head on a rock.
With a bandage on her forehead and a smile on her face, she nods with contentment from her hospital bed.
There’s no need to bring her new flowers every day. The flowers I brought her the first day are still fresh today, so all you need to do is take them away while she’s asleep and bring them in when she wakes up.
“Look what I have! Flowers!”
She smiles peacefully and looks out the window.

Punchy

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Twenty-two years ago, The Champion died in a plane crash.
The Boxing Association had enough of his DNA on file to let us grow and train a copy.
But not before Fights Incorporated got their own samples.
After a generation of hungry contenders, the Boxing World was taken by a storm of Champions.
Evenly matched in the ring in all ways but one: their training.
We had trained him before, so we knew his weaknesses.
Our champion came out on top, and he held the belt over his head in triumph.
We made sure he and the belt flew separately.