Category: My stories

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.

Blind Man’s Wallet

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Joe has been blind since birth, but he keeps photos in his wallet.
We ask him who they are of.
His wife. His daughter. His parents.
He opens up the wallet to show us.
All three are beautiful, almost-perfect.
They are the photos that came with the wallet.
We know they are fakes, but does he know they’re fakes?
And does he know that we know they are fakes?
We play along.
Or is he playing along with us?
Does he really have a kid? Is he really married?
He’s got the ring, but then… the photos.
What’s the truth?

I Killed The Moon

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Look at this knife.
This knife is mine.
I threw it at the moon.
And killed it.
Its blood raining down.
Dead.
Police station.
Jail. Behind bars.
Arrested for murder.
Other cells hold drunks. Hookers. Thieves.
I am the only murderer.
“Why did you do it?” asks the cop.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I had a knife. It was there. It followed me home.”
This angers him.
“Why did you do it?” he shouts.
I really don’t know. All I know, is that I killed the moon.
Every night, my victim up there in the sky.
Still following me.

Fresh Thursday

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What do you mean you’re having a bad Thursday?
Thursdays don’t spoil.
I pick my Thursdays fresh from the vine and gently place them in the basket.
So ripe and delicious they are, I can hardly believe they’re gone by Friday.
I wake up, rub the Thursday from my eyes.
Oh, why can’t every day be a fresh Thursday, picked from the vine?
Mondays… Wednesdays… not for me.
This man in the alley offered me Thursday pills. Ground up from dried Thursdays.
No. Fresh Thursdays or nothing! I deserve the best!
Today, my friend, I take a long, slow bite!

The Labels

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Something strange happened last night.
All of the labels on the cans in the pantry vanished.
I don’t know how or why. It just happened.
Now, I have no idea what’s in these cans.
Well, okay, maybe the tomato paste is easy to identify. They’re small and thin.
Soup cans are all the same. I never buy soup that I don’t like, so I can just grab any can shaped like that.
The rest are canned fruit. I should eat more of that.
Every can I will open will be a new mystery solved.
This is going to be fun.