Category: My stories

Ringing

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Tom lets the phone ring for a while before picking it up.
“Robots give up after four rings,” he explained. “If my friends really want to get me, they’ll let it ring ten or eleven times.”
The phone rings. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five times.
“What about robots who are your friends?” I ask.
For just a moment, Tom’s look gets dark. Angry.
“I have no robot friends,” he says.
Maybe today, but it wasn’t always the case.
Somewhere, deep in a lab under New Mexico, a mainframe caked with dust and spiderwebs.
Memory banks silent, filled with sadness.

Sacrifice That

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He commanded me to go up the mountain with my son and a knife.
“Prove your loyalty to me,” said The Lord. “Go kill him.”
God’s a prick. He’s always fucking with us like that.
Sacrifice this, recite that.
I’m tired of it.
So I let Him guide me up the mountain, His hand showing the way.
I lay my son on a flat rock, draw the knife, and ask if He’s sure about this.
“Just kidding,” He says. “Go sacrifice that goat.”
He points to a mountain goat.
I grab his Hand, cut off a finger, and swallow it.

Fishing

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I used to go fishing with my grandfather.
No, I didn’t go on a boat or a dock to dish.
Instead, we’d go to the aquarium after dark and fish in the really big tank.
Not only is the water clear, but there’s a lot of really cool fish in there.
Okay, so there’s some really dangerous things in there like sharks, but you can yank the line up when those get close.
Or so we thought.
Grampa lost a foot. Ouch.
Good news, though: they recovered the shoe out of the shark’s stomach.
As if he needed it anymore.

Small Safe Town

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There aren’t many secrets on an orbiting research platform.
It doesn’t matter how big we build these. Even a few thousand onboard, it’s still like a small town. Or a research center.
Word passes fast.
It’s also hard to keep secrets about problems with the space station. Everybody is critical to keeping this machine running.
Those that aren’t, they can still sense trouble. Engineers needed for their experiments are busy doing something else.
Plus, when it’s something navigation-related, everyone notices different views out of the windows.
We’re all packing, preparing for evacuation.
But smiling. Like a small, safe little town.

Witness

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I’m a professional witness.
The wilder the thing you want me to witness, the more it’ll cost you.
Same goes with how far I need to go back into history to witness it.
Some scientists did the math and figured out that building superconducting supercolliders was far too expensive for particle research.
So, they’re paying me to witness the Big Bang.
I go back tomorrow and come back Friday.
They paid me only half in advance, just in case I’d be tempted to stay.
Of course I’ll come back. My cat and plants won’t feed themselves.
Sitters? Too damn expensive.

Voltmaster’s Garden

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The Gardener of the Voltmaster’s hedge maze is the only man alive who knows how to navigate that nefarious path of thorns, pits, and snares.
We release five goblins into the north end of the maze and place five bags of gold coins at the southern exit.
These five bags are the same ones that have been used from year to year, because no goblin has ever completed the maze.
The Gardener usually waits a week before going in with a large burlap sack to collect their bodies.
“More volunteers for the resurrectionist!” he says, shaking the bag and laughing.

The Dog Still

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Boy, there comes a time in every kid’s life when he’s got to say goodbye to a pet. Do it without crying and whining and raising a fuss.
It’s your dog. I kinda used him to make a whiskey still.
Oh, sure, there was some leftover bits and pieces, but I went ahead and buried them in the back yard.
The rest is just chuggin away in the shed, makin that moonshine your grampaw sells in town.
So, don’t go cryin, and don’t go pettin’ my still or playin fetch with it.
Here. Have a sip. Hair of the dog.

Executioner

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When the queen called for my head, I knew I was doomed.
But when she called for my head to be brought to her on a paper plate, well, thatreally bothered me.
“Shouldn’t that be on a silver platter?” I asked.
The executioner shrugged. “Sorry, man. I’m only following orders.”
He took me down to the dungeon, tied my hands behind my back, and knelt me before the chopping block.
“Maybe it has to do with the fact that it’s hard to wash blood off of silver?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He just raised the axe and swung.

Fiddle Faddle

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I admit it. I’m addicted to Fiddle Faddle.
I love the stuff. It’s so much better than Chex Mix.
Some people will eat any snack, but I refuse to eat anything but Fiddle Faddle for a snack.
Once, on April Fools, my friends told me they weren’t going to make Fiddle Faddle anymore.
Oh no! What would I snack on?
That night, one of my friends turned out to be a vampire and he bit me on the neck, turning me into a vampire.
Since then, I’ve just had blood.
I’ll live forever, but without Fiddle Faddle?
Stake me now.

Boxcars

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The commercials called Boxcar Willie the king of the hobo musicians, but old Willie never spent a day riding the rails.
He was a gambler. Craps was his game. Guy owned a pair of dice, loaded for sixes: Boxcars.
“Boxcars Willie” didn’t sound quite right, so they called him Boxcar.
The same went with his bandmates Snake Eyes Sam and Acey Duecey. They were in his band as well as at the craps table as much as Willie.
Get Drunk And Hole Up With A Transvestite Hooker Howard, well, he didn’t gamble. So we called him Howie. He played drums.