Tag: tragedy

The Blackberry Bard

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He writes his tales as he walks the streets, tapping the keys on a telephone.
Before the telephone, he would stop at corner coffeehouses with his notebook to write his stories. Now, he is on the move, the Blackberry Bard enjoys the cool evening.
He is slimmer, healthier. The exercise has served him well.
Not looking as he crosses the street hasn’t.
His latest tale will never be finished.
A cop stands over the Bard’s corpse and picks up the phone.
He looks like over, admires the buttons and the slightly-scratched screen.
“Nice phone,” he says, and pockets the battery.

My Medicine

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My medicine is running out.
Just three more pills left in the bottle.
The insurance company says they no longer cover it – they say it’s an experimental treatment.
The pills are too expensive. I cannot afford them on my own.
I beg, but they ignore me.
Fools.
So, I will run out, and when the full moon returns, I will be howling at it while on the hunt.
Thank you for the address of the claims agent who rejected my appeal. I plan on going through The Change outside his home.
There will be no appeal from my claws, either.

Music Club

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Alice has been dead for twenty years, but the record club has been sending her the default monthly selection every month.
She was unmarried, had no kids, no brothers or sisters, and her parents were long gone.
The people who moved into her house kept the albums, as did all of the people who moved in after them.
Only when the house was demolished to make way for a shopping mall did the deliveries stop.
Still, if you listen carefully, right outside the bookstore, you can hear music.
Of course you can, stupid. There’s a music store there.
Overpriced, too.

Diegoland

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Think about the name Champion Valiant.
You have to be pretty ballsy to pick a name like that, right?
Close your eyes and think for a moment what that guy would look like.
Flowing dark hair.
Suit of armor and wide shoulders.
Big, really big sword.
No, all it takes is a big heart.
Big enough to share all the music, the art, the storytelling, the architecture, the culture and the spirit of the city of San Diego.
When that city burned, the city that didn’t support Diegoland, he raised funds for the victims.
That is a true champion valiant.

Act Of God

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The governor gave the mandatory evacuation orders, but some stupid folks stayed.
Sure enough, in the middle of the storm, we got their calls, screaming to be rescued.
We wrote down the address and hung up on them. Then, we yelled at the guys who were supposed to cut the phone lines.
After the storm passed, we hopped in the jeeps and headed to the address.
They were all dead, except one guy with a broken leg.
“Thank God you’re here!” he cried.
I hit him on the head with a brick.
No questions that way. An Act Of God.

Just A Taste

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Leslie is always asking for a taste of what I’m eating or drinking.
With one massive bite or gulp, she hands back an empty plate or glass.
“Delicious,” he moans. “Thank you.”
If she asks you for something, give it to her.
Don’t just stick it in her face for her to bite or sip while you’re still holding on to it.
You could lose a finger.. a hand… even an arm if she’s hungry.
Her last boyfriend learned that lesson the hard way.
He had a strawberry in his mouth, offered it with a kiss, and lost his head.

No Gloves

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She covers her whole face with a mask, even though it’s just the left side that has the worst of the scars.
“Symmetry,” she growls.
She changes masks throughout the day, some smiling, some angry, some expressionless… just a white shaped piece of ceramic with two holes for eyes.
The left eye is fine, but the right one is different.
Bloodshot. Dilated.
“I see better with it than with the other,” she says, and she goes back to painting.
She wears the mask, but not gloves.
The brush in the blackened claw of her right hand dashes along the canvas.

Coins

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I stacked up quarters by the jukebox.
Everybody in the bar sighed and knew what was coming.
Six… Five… One…
It was her song.
It became our song, but before it was our song, it was her song.
She shared it with me.
She shared everything with me.
Until… the accident.
They said she fell asleep at the wheel, but she was parked when the other car hit her.
The guy that hit her disappeared, abandoned his car.
The registration and plates were fake. Stolen from a dealer’s lot.
I put in another quarter.
Six… Five… One…
All night long.

Donor

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Cheryl had put “Imagination and fingernails” on her organ donor card
It wasn’t easy to find, but tucked away, hidden behind her nightmares and dreams, there was her imagination.
“So fragile,” said the surgeon, and she gently lifted it out and put it on a ceramic dish.
Her assistant checked the national registry and found a match – an artist, skilled with a brush but without inspiration or the creative spark.
“Call them,” said the surgeon. “And have them ready by ten.”
The assistant nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.
“No,” said the surgeon, and she put the fingernails in her pocket.

Shoelaces

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“Your shoelace is untied,” says a voice.
I stop and look back.
Nobody’s there.
I hear this kind of thing all the time. Especially since the accident.
I was always bad about tying my shoelaces when I was little. Sure, I tripped a few times, but I learned to just tuck the laces in.
I liked loose shoes. Nice and relaxed.
So, when one came loose on the railway platform and I tripped over it, I was really surprised.
Train ran over my legs.
Yeah, there’s nobody behind me.
I turn back around and roll my wheelchair to the elevator.