Tag: sick

The Noodle Mystery

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When I get a lunch hour, I make the best of that hour.
Mama Chang’s Noodle House.
There was something odd about the bowl of noodles I was having for lunch.
I’ve heard rumors that the chicken is really stray cat.
It still tastes good. Cheap, too.
This time, I had ordered pork and vegetables, but instead I had received Walt Whitman.
I tried to fish out the noodles around him, but Walt found this insulting.
“I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones,” said Walt.
So, I reached for him with my chopsticks and ate him.

The Sins

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They killed their mother, said the man. My wife. My love.
You have seven to love where you once had one, said the priest. What will you name them?
As he watched the casket descend, he decided on the seven deadly sins.
Over the years, they grew to earn their names, and to detest their father.
In the end, it was Socordia, the lazy one, that killed him.
“If you’d only had given those rollerskates to me instead of her, I wouldn’t have left them lying around for you to trip over,” said Invidia.
Laughing, Ira burned the house down.

Nine

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Calendars are artificial constructs, I keep telling myself.
The number of days in a week or month, the number of months in a year. These are all based on arbitrary standards that society has chosen.
The length of the year and where it starts varies, adjusted constantly to compensate for these inconsistencies.
September was once the seventh month. Now, it’s the ninth. The ninth of September, on a year set from an arbitrary start, has no cosmic meaning.
I repeat this over and over as the skies turn red, and taloned beasts crawl out of the shadows, sniffing for prey.

Fern

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The kids all point their fingers at Fern and laugh.
She doesn’t cry. Instead, she reaches into her backpack and pulls out a compass.
There’s no greater sight than the look on a bully’s face when he’s been stabbed in the chest. That change from the purest malice to emasculated shock happens quickly, but time slows down enough to let the moment be savored.
The bully goes down, hands clutched to his chest, blood leaking through his fingers.
Others scream, but Fern just rifles through the bully’s backpack.
She takes the compass, stows it away in her backpack, and leaves.

The Zoo

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I love going to the zoo.
You can get so much information about the animals on the signs while walking through nearly-natural habitats.
I see from here that the giraffe is from Africa, has a very long tongue, and is worth four Weight Watchers points.
“What wine goes with giraffe?” I ask the zookeeper.
He calls up the sommelier on his walkie-talkie. “A fruity red,” he says. “We have those in the gift shop.”
“Fine,” I say. “Open one now, put another on ice, and I’ll take the giraffe on the left.”
The zookeeper smiles, nods, and loads his rifle.

Returning Fire

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The humans watched as the vulture tore into Prometheus’ side.
“I didn’t quite catch what you said just there,” groaned Prometheus. “Bird trouble. Could you say that again?”
“We said we’re sorry,” said the leader of the humans. He held out a torch. “If we give this back, will they let you go?”
“Probably not,” said Prometheus. “Just as well you keep it. Might come in handy.”
The leader shook his head. “We’d just feel guilty about it.”
He apologized again, left the torch on the ground. and led his people away… right off of a cliff in the darkness.

Father and Son

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Dan taught his son how to ride a bike, how to shave, how to tie a tie, and all the little things that fathers teach sons.
Many years later, after the stroke, Dan’s son taught him to speak, how to shave, and how to tie a tie again.
But instead of teaching him how to ride a bike, he went ahead and tried to teach his dad how to drive again.
Big mistake.
As Dan was loaded into the ambulance, he watched another father teach his young boy how to tie a tourniquet.
They grow up so fast. He smiled.

With every lick

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How many licks does it take to get to the center of this lollipop?
Thanks to the replenishment spell on my tongue, the number is infinite.
With every lick, I restore what I have licked away.
Sure, it was painful to tattoo the sigils on my tongue, but I think it was well worth it.
The problem is, in casting the spell, my tongue has lost all sense of taste.
It’s like licking a marble on a stick now. Candy has lost all appeal.
I mean Candy, my apprentice.
She may enjoy it, but I’m left out in the cold.

Crime In E Minor

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The detective looks at the body and says “Round up every violinist.”
He is holding a smashed instrument, and his conclusions would be sound if he were correct about one thing: that is a viola, not a violin.
They dust it for fingerprints… none at all.
I wore gloves, you see.
Yes, it was me, dear reader. I am the murderer.
And that is my viola.
The violinists come in, one after the other, but each has an alibi.
It is a year later, he is no closer to solving the case.
Good.
Because my new viola thirsts for blood.

The Monkey Dance

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For ten years, Dinko Dogan and his monkey entertained the streets of Rousse.
At night, they swam in the Danube, Dinko singing and the monkey hunting fish.
“The fish are bad,” said the rivermaster. “The poison from the factories is in them.”
Dinko laughed. The monkey laughed with him. “Come for a swim, my friend!” he sang.
When the coughing and bleeding sores were too painful to ignore, Dinko ended his nightly swims.
The price of bananas was so high, but the fruitwagoneer said the monkey brought customers and gave them for free.
Dinko sang, and the monkey danced on.