Tag: tragedy

Middle Stall

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There are three stalls in the bathroom.
After careful observation, I’ve noticed that whenever Stanley uses the left one, he comes out the right one. And whenever he uses the right one, he comes out the left one.
Stanley can’t explain it. It”s just something that happens.
So, I asked him what happens when he uses the middle one.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never used it.”
He stepped into the center stall and closed the door.
A minute went by before I knocked.
“Are you in there, Stanley?” I asked.
He wasn’t.
If you see him, call me?

Your Other Left

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The road turned left.
Macy turned right.
They found her truck the next morning, smashed into a big oak tree.
Macy was sitting in the bed of the pickup, smoking a cigarette through shattered teeth.
The Sheriff asked her if she was alright.
Macy looked back through two black eyes and shrugged.
“I guess so,” she said. “I”ve felt better, though.”
The Sheriff got up in the truck bed and bummed a smoke off of Macy. “Shame about the truck,” he said.
“Shame about the tree, too,” she said.
He nodded, and they waited for the tow truck in silence.

A Night On The Beach

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I wake up and shake the sand from my shoes. This happens every morning.
But I haven’t been to the beach in years.
Only in my dreams.
Sometimes, there’s driftwood in my hand, seaweed wrapped around my ankle.
Salt in my hair from the ocean spray.
On a shelf over my mirror, I’ve put my seashell collection.
All these things, I dream of. And bring back with me.
When I dream of you, take my hand, and let me bring you back.
I will leave my sadness on the sands of my dreams.
To be washed away with the tide.

The Monster Under The Bed

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Every kid has a monster under the bed, but I’m grown up now.
And yet, right under our bed, there’s a monster.
No, not the orange fluffy cat down here. His grabbing at ankles and biting hands trying to pet him are behind him now.
He’s sleeping, or…
The monster under the bed is not knowing what I’ll find when I look under there again.
The monster is my fear.
The monster is his suffering, and not being able to do anything about it.
The monster takes away every good memory, and replaces it with the sadness that is now.

Jacob

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Jacob”s violin was the pride of Minsk. But that didn’t matter, because the Nazis put everyone on the trains.
The commander of the camp was also from Minsk, and he knew of Jacob. He commanded him to play for the officers during dinner.
Jacob refused, demanding to play for the workers.
So, they let him. And after a minute of playing for us, he was shot.
The commander was Klaus Gustav. Years later, I found Klaus in Cairo, and I strangled him with one of Jacob’s violin strings.
The sound of Gustav’s croaks doesn”t haunt me at all.
Only Jacob.

The Happy Pie

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It was an ordinary pumpkin pie, fresh from the bakery.
We were finished with the roast beef, so it was time for dessert.
Victor grabbed the can of whipped cream and added two dots for eyes and a long curled smile.
That’s when it became the happy pie.
“Come on, Victor,” I said. “Let’s have the pie.”
We all wanted a slice, but Victor shouted “THE HAPPY PIE IS TOO HAPPY TO EAT!” and he ran off with it.
Victor wasn’t hard to chase down. He was sitting on the curb, the pie splattered against the sidewalk.
Happy, no more.

He lives on Elephant Street

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Mother told me to look both ways before crossing the street.
To the left, I saw an elephant. It looked sad and lonely.
To the right, I saw a jolly minstrel being attacked by kids with rocks. He looked frustrated at the abuse.
So I tell the minstrel to go cheer up the elephant.
He does, and the elephant begins to dance happily to the merry tune.
All these wonderful opportunities to make others happy, why should I ever cross the street?
Then I hear a sickening splat.
The elephant has crushed the minstrel.
Is the light green yet?
RUN!

Haunts Me

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My little girl was shrieking. Confused.
Her back legs were limp. She fell off the bed, dragging herself.
Scared beyond description.
I called my wife, called a cab, got dressed. Got her into a carrier and out the door.
The emergency clinic said it was a blood clot. They’d try to thin it with drugs.
When they took her in back, I heard her meowing her “WHERE’S DADDY?” cry.
Go home, they said. Sleep. Come back to check her into the day clinic.
Two hours later, they called.
I should have been there for her.
And that’s what haunts me.

Broadway

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The house was packed. Every critic in New York was there, circling like sharks.
So when two minutes to curtain the propmaster shouts FRANK’S DEAD! I thought ohmigodtotaldisastershitshitshit.
“What do we do?” hissed Sally, my lead.
“Run with it!” I yelled. “I’ll call the cops.”
For 2 hours, the actors improved a murder mystery and my cousin Vinnie in the force played along.
After all, how often do you get a spotlight on Broadway without climbing the ladder, kissing ass, sucking cock, and all that crap?
Hell, yeah, Vinnie said yes.
The reviews were amazing. We ran for months.
Bravo.

Level Playing Field

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All of the headstones are flush with the ground, which has been flattened to allow for quick and easy lawn maintenance.
The groundskeepers are supposed to collect up the flowers and flags and candles and other items left behind, but they never do.
There’s a brief change in tone of the drone of the lawnmower as it chews up and spits out pieces of whatever trinket it’s absorbed, spraying it across the lawn with the grass clippings.
The leaf-blowers toss the grass clippings, leaves, and shards of shared memory into the air.
I’m sure it lands somewhere. Not my problem.