Category: My stories

Thud

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Ricky had been shouting about sparkly unicorns and butterflies before his eyes crossed and he dropped like a stone.
For the next thirty years, we’d visit him in the hospital.
The nurses always cleaned him up nicely before visits.
We’d hold his hand, tell him that we missed him, and then ask him what he meant by unicorns and butterflies.
He never did wake up.
One day, we came to visit, and he wasn’t there.
Someone else was there.
So we started visiting them.
To tell you the truth, we liked them better than Ricky.
Ricky was such an asshole.

Tunnel

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I’ve been walking for hours, but I haven’t found the end of this tunnel.
The walls get narrow, then they get wide.
There’s some phosphorescent rocks and moss down here.
I can make my way around without being totally blind.
The floor’s slippery. I have to walk slowly or I’ll fall.
This map doesn’t say how far I need to go. It’s torn, and part of it is missing.
The part I’m in.
I have no idea where I am going, I should keep going until I find a way out.
Or, I could stay down here.
Maybe next time.

Volcano

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The tribal chief was perplexed by the crop failures and dwindling animal stocks.
“The only thing we have that’s worth anything is the volcano,” he said.
“Hey, let’s try sacrificing things in it,” I suggested.
Everybody agreed.
We started to sacrifice virgins in the volcano, but it turned out that the moment a virgin was selected, she’d bang the chief’s son.
So, we changed to animal sacrifices. Those, the chief’s son would steal from the offering pen to make a feast for all his girlfriends.
In the end, we sacrificed the chief’s son.
Kicking and screamed all the way down.

Foil

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Happy birthday, Oliver. Here’s your present.
What?
Oh, I never buy gift wrapping paper.
Instead, I use tinfoil.
It’s bright and shiny. And it’s actually cheaper than wrapping paper when you think about it.
Especially if you give out small presents and not all that often.
Instead of having wrapping paper for every occasional and holiday, the tinfoil serves all purposes.
Plus, when they unwrap their presents, they can wrap food in it and put it in the freezer.
Let’s see you try to do that with wrapping paper.
What? You did?
No wonder why these steaks are badly freezer-burned.

The Black Spot

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I dropped a can of root beer on my foot.
When I took off the shoe and sock, the middle toe was dark red.
No blood, just bruised.
A day later, the swelling went down.
But there was a black spot on the nail.
Over the past month, it’s been slowly growing out.
In another month or two, it will be at the edge, and I can clip it off.
As if it were never there.
All the while, the spot tells me to save it.
“Please cut off your toe,” it begs.
Every day, it gets louder. Desperate. Angrier.

Straight Up

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If you ask a robot where home is, it usually points to its recharging station.
So when the Andersons’ new service droid pointed straight up, I assumed that it meant the attic.
After the survey of Oak Falls was complete, no other robot in my survey had an attic charging station.
Return to Washington?
No. Not yet.
I went back to the Andersons’ house and asked the robot again, but while we were outside.
It pointed up again.
That’s when the lights appeared in the sky.
“Where is home?” The robot asked.
It seems we have our profession in common.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln #100

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Bill Herndon opened his former law partner’s letter and read the final line once more:
I’m coming back sometime, and then we’ll go right on practicing law as if nothing had ever happened.
Strange events had been happening since Abe died.
Odd noises at night.
Books removed from shelves.
Papers strewn on the floor.
It was when the unconscious prostitute appeared on his desk did Herndon fear for the worst.
“Abe liked his post-trial hookers,” he chuckled, and he sent for a exorcist. “You’ve done enough, old friend. It’s time to rest.”
The whore fell to the ground, still comatose.

Demolition Derby

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Hey, man!
Bored with football?
Tired of all these baseball players juicin up?
Hockey not bloody enough for you?
Lemme tell you about a new sport: communication satellite demolition derby!
All it takes is override commands, some maneuvering propellant, and a decent grasp of orbital physics.
There’s nothing quite like watching two expensive chunks of metal surrounded by gigantic solar arrays smashing into each other, leaving tiny sparkling fragments to cloud the the skies for all eternity.
Call your friends. Point your telescopes to the sky. Place your bets.
Then put on your crash helmets and watch the aerial carnage!

Molly

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By day, Molly Scott’s soul is where it belongs – inside Molly, making Molly uniquely Molly.
If you’ve read her books, you’ll know what I mean. Children’s books totally unsafe for children. “Cooking With Broken Glass” and “Boogertime Blues” are favorite of mine.
At night, her soul wanders and resides in a CPR dummy in Fairfax.
It was during a late First Aid class that I discovered this phenomenon. Five chest compressions, pinch the nose, breathe in, and a slow, faint whisper: this is why I do not dream.
No movement, no animation. Just plastic.
I switched to a cooking class.

The Alchemist

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The world is turning to bright yellow glass.
The Alchemist. I have to see her.
She has the pills I need.
Her blend of phase-anchoring nanobots and cellular dimensional disruptor isotopes aren’t cheap.
What’s your task?
Reach across time for an artifact?
Disrupt the future for a prophesy.
Bring me a Weaver Crystal, she says. Red.
Ah. Materials collection.
Easy.
I reach through space to The Hive, my hand brushing across Clusterdrones from cave to cave.
I break off a shard and hand it to the Alchemist.
Orange will do, she mutters, and my lead-weave pouch is full once again.