Tag: tragedy

Atlas

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When I broke my neck, such marvelous places across the world – the Pyramids, Everest – were lost to me.
My bed was my prison, chained by tubes in my neck. My arm. My gut.
When I didn’t just die, they drugged me less.
The cloud became the wall. A television, always on.
I groaned. “I want to see the world.”
So they brought me tapes of these places.
I explored, demanding more… Washington… Amazon… Museums… Galleries….
I was Atlas, map of the world, roaming mind.
Trapped in my head. On a pillow. In my bed.
But not my prison.
My throne.

Passing The Rose

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In a land without tears, the tearmaster goes from home to home, selling his sadness.
“What good is joy without its opposite?” he tells everyone. “If you cannot feel the deep lows, what will you feel of the highs? Nothing!”
The people stood and stared, confused.
“You cannot feel good without at some point feeling bad!” he shouted.
A child picked up a rock and threw it at the tearmaster, who yelped at the pain.
His hand came away from his forehead bloody.
More townspeople threw rocks. The blood flowed down the tearmaster’s face.
“Are those tears?” asked a child.

Tuck Her In

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Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Sally.
Every night, the robot would tuck in Sally, kiss her on the forehead, and say goodnight.
The robot then would sit in a atomic-powered recharging chair for the night.
This went on every night for 500 years.
Every so often, the robot would ask Sally if she brushed her teeth or said her prayers, but it wasn’t advanced enough to take verbal commands. It just asked those things as part of a routine.
When Sally’s corpse decayed beyond recognition, the robot looked for a new house in the ruins.

To The Orcs

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John’s house had a storm drain in the back yard.
To Billy, it was a tunnel to the great underground orc kingdom.
“They made it look like a storm drain to fool the surface-dwellers,” he said.
One day, Billy took a butcher’s knife and a flashlight down the drain.
“To glory and treasure,” read the note he left on the refrigerator.
He never came back.
The police asked questions, and John kept saying “The orcs got him.”
John spent a lot of time in therapy after that.
To this day, he’s always watchful, and he never goes near storm drains.

Fee Fie Foe Fucked

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Jack didn’t realize his mistake until he’d chopped through the beanstalk.
The giant was directly above his farm.
And falling. Really fast.
Gold coins couldn’t buy his way out of this one.
The goose’s goose was cooked.
And the magic harp began to play a mournful dirge as the shadows grew darker and darker.
The giant was falling face-down, and when he saw the look on Jack’s face, he roared with laughter.
“FEE FIE FO FUM!” was the last thing the giant shouted, and the last thing Jack heard.
Jack’s wife, asleep, didn’t feel a thing.
“Magic beans,” she mumbled.

Masturbation

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If you’ve read Fark, you’ve heard the adage: Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten.
So, every time a cat masturbates, does God kill a baby?
I know the answer. And the answer is YES.
Malnutrition, ad genetics, crib death – the government and WHO make excuses, but you’ll never get the truth out of their reports.
It’s masturbating cats killing all the babies! Damn them!
Very few people know. Bob Barker is one of them.
Why do you think he kept saying to spay and neuter your pets?
It was for the children. It was always for the children.

Random Dave

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Every fifteen seconds, Dave hits the Random link in Wikipedia and learns something new.
Hypotrichosis is when you have less than normal amounts of hair, for instance. Dave looked in the mirror and smirked… he might have that.
He kept clicking until he found an article about himself.
He read it from top to bottom.
Everything… his birth, his school days, his career.
It was all there. Boring as hell.
So, he changed it.
He added a wife and kids. Made himself a retired football star.
Everything was great.
Until, of course, someone deleted the page by accident.
Bye, Dave.

Chorus

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Ever hear of the Falling Chorus of Ghastly Cliffs?
No? It’s a fascinating story.
Imagine a gigantic gleaning amphitheater set on the edge of a cliff.
As the city residents become old and weak, they join the line down Main Street to the chorus at the cliff.
When they reach the amphitheater, they sing for all they’re worth.
Some go for a few seconds. Others, for hours.
When they’re exhausted, helpers pick them off the ground and toss them over the edge.
Another takes their place. The choir goes on forever.
It’s beautiful, except for the screams and messy splatters.

Jellyfish

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Jefferson Jellyfish Jones couldn’t count to 88, but he used every one of those 88 keys on that piano like a surgeon uses every knife on his tray.
He sliced and snipped at the music, tucking and nipping until what was once a bloody mess was a shining example the finest beauty.
Your ears and soul, lifted higher than they’d ever been lifted before, sonny.
At the ripe old age of 88, at the Bad Times Bar, Jellyfish hit those keys one last time, face down.
Even in his dying moment, no sweeter sound.
Play all night, Jellyfish. Play on.

Weatherman

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We’re a small town, barely a thousand people.
Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows about them.
George is the town’s weatherman. Had a job at a big television station before he got sick of city life and retired here.
Well, maybe not retired. More like cracked up after blowing a bunch of forecasts, getting fired… drinking a lot.
Whatever. He’s a lousy weatherman, but the best we got.
When the tornado siren went off, he just laughed.
“No tornados today,” he said.
Those were his last words. During the cleanup, we found his body smashed against a tree.