Category: My stories

Piano Man

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I was sitting at a San Francisco sidewalk cafe, minding my own business, when a large herd of grand pianos slowly rolled along the street.
“Did they fall out of a truck?” the waiter asked.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” I said. “They’re all going uphill.”
The pianos, paying no attention to our comments, continued their slow, rumbling roll up the hill and out of sight.
“Hey, maybe we should tell someone?” said the waiter. “They might cause an accident or something.”
“You’re right,” I said, pulling out a cell phone. “They completely ran that red light.”

Poor Support

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I’m reading through my emails when I come across one with the subject line of Poor Support!!!!!!
I count the exclamation points – at least twenty.
Then I think for a moment… did they mean Poor Support as in they got bad support, or are they showing sympathy for Support?
Email strips the nuance out of language.
And also, for that matter, the text of the show notes here on the podcast.
I read the message and it’s just some customer bitching that they had to manage their server themselves.
You know – like the contract says.
No nuances there, folks.

Leland Clay

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Leland Clay?
That’s a name that brings back memories.
He was the town’s banker, a decent enough fellow. Always dressed nice. Not too nice – just nice enough.
You know, Leland would leave candy out so the kids would come in to put money in their passbook accounts for college.
Leland vanished one day. So did all the bank’s money.
He turned up in the Bahamas – had himself a nice place there.
Not too nice – just nice enough.
We burned it to the ground with him inside it, and the investigators got the rest of the money back.
Want some candy?

The Diva and The Devil

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I know I’ve been gone for a while, but I’m back.
And, by gum, do I have an opera!
Sold my soul for it.
Drop what you’re doing and meet me at the Old Opera House tonight.
I don’t care what it costs to do this. Put it on my tab and just get it all done, okay?
Bring musicians, instruments, singers, costumes, lighting, ushers, and caterers.
Bring the fat lady, too. We’re going to need her.
This’ll be bigger and better than the last one we did.
They’ll be packed to the rafters, paying anything… everything…
Just like me.

With Them

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I used to dance. But I don’t anymore.
For a while, I tried. But the braces on my legs were stiff and awkward.
Everyone smiled and was very supportive.
Too supportive. Like a spotlight was on me.
So, I stopped. And I stopped listening to music, because it made me want to get up and dance with it.
Maybe I can start a dance club, where I can teach others to dance. Or a dancehall where people can dance to my music.
I will dance through them.
And who knows? With medicine as it is, maybe with them some day.

Pickling

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“Anything can be pickled,” said Joe.
We were sitting on his front porch, watching the dust blow over the road when he said this.
“What?” I asked.
“Anything can be pickled,” said Joe.
A squirrel ran across the road.
“Could you pickle that?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Hold on.”
Joe pulled out his gun, shot the squirrel, and walked out to get it.
“Did you have to shoot the thing?” I asked.
“Well, you can’t pickle these things alive,” said Joe. “They tend to claw up the inside of the glass and crap themselves.”
I guess he’s right.

Rivals

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We, the people of Busker County, blew Morgantown off of the map.
Well, sorta.
It started with a friendly football rivalry, but within a week we had armed militias running around, burning crops and the post office.
Someone suggested that we hold a football game to settle our differences, but it turned out to be an ambush.
Rumor was that Morgantown was working on a nuclear weapon.
Turned out to be true, but there was a slight glitch and they blew themselves off of the map.
Call it an error if you want to, I’ll call it peace and quiet.

Message in a Bottle

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I watched as the waves carried the bottle to the beach.
I picked it up, popped the cork, and pulled out some scraps of paper.
They were coupons for herbal medications to make my breasts bigger and my penis longer and thicker.
Then there was a letter from the widow of some oil executive who didn’t know me, but they blessed me and said they’d be dead soon.
Oh, and apparently I’d won a big lottery or something.
Looking out on the water, I saw the glitter of a million more bottles.
“Goddamned Spam,” I mumbled, crumpling up the notes.

The Wild One

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They called Zacharias the Wild One.
They also called him Peanut Butter and Jelly, because he really liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but all eyes went wide when they saw… the flaming peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“That’s so totally cool,” said one kid, staring at the burning sandwich in Zacharias’s hands.
“AAAAUUUUUGGGHHHHH!” screamed Zacharias, and he dropped the sandwich, running to the lake to cool his scorched hand.
And that’s when we called him the Wild One.
We also called him an ambulance.
Never saw him again.
I wonder if he still eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

He Loves You

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God looked over His Wondrous, Unlit Creation and decided it was good.
Well, except for one thing: The Plans.
“Something not right, Boss?” asked an angel.
“Let me get this straight,” said God. “I’m supposed to act like an asshole, drive people nuts for centuries, and then send down my kid to let them know I love them?
“Right,” said the angel.
“And then they kill him,” continued God. “But then he comes back from the dead?”
“Exactly,” said the angel.
“I must have been really drunk when I wrote that shit up,” said God, and He flipped the switch.