Tag: cliche

The Cakes

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Mario keeps seven magnificent wedding cakes in the window.
They are the same seven cakes since he opened the store. Over all those years, they never changed.
Every day, these cakes taunt me. They beg me to eat them.
The donuts or éclairs or brownies or fudge, which Mario also has in vast supply, they don’t call out to me.
I ate them, sure, but yearned for the cakes.
You don’t use the same ingredients for display cakes as you do for ones you eat.
I didn’t know this back then.
We threw that rock through his window for nothing.

Virtual Class

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Imaginary spitballs fill the air. Roger Washington’s back to pulling pigtails. Stacy Miller shimmers and falls to dust.
Third one today. There must be something out of sorts with the holographic system.
I check the diagnostics while Stacy’s parents are threatening to sue the school.
No red lights, so I order a check of the Miller’s unit and read the manufacturer alerts.
Aha. Bad firmware update last night.
I send out an alert to the parents, and I remind them to remove all headsets before performing this flash.
No sense risking a spark and wiping a kid. Even little Roger.

The Golden Pen

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I was suffering a horrible case of writer’s block when The Devil tapped me on the shoulder.
“Use my pen,” he said, and he handed me his Golden Pen.
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“The usual shit,” he said. “Brilliant artistry for your soul and eternal damnation.”
“Pffft,” I said. “I’m already fucked.”
I shook his hand and he vanished.
Sure enough, when I tried to write, it was out of ink.
Fucker.
Oh well. I wrote anyway, scratching the letters into the paper, and I held it up to the light.
I’m damned, but my work will live on.

My Medicine

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My medicine is running out.
Just three more pills left in the bottle.
The insurance company says they no longer cover it – they say it’s an experimental treatment.
The pills are too expensive. I cannot afford them on my own.
I beg, but they ignore me.
Fools.
So, I will run out, and when the full moon returns, I will be howling at it while on the hunt.
Thank you for the address of the claims agent who rejected my appeal. I plan on going through The Change outside his home.
There will be no appeal from my claws, either.

Wine

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A wine tells the story of an entire countryside.
With a touch of the seal, you can feel rough hands of the farmer as he ties down vines.
With a sniff, you can smell the rich soil the grapes grew in.
With a taste, you can see the seasons pass… the sunshine… the rain…
With a glance at the bottle, you can see where the blood from the rebel colonists has soaked the label.
Captain Drog smiled and ordered the entire colony’s production to be loaded on to the ship.
“Then set a course for cheese and crackers!” he shouts.

The Gentleman

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“A razor to fight with and a razor to shave with.”
That’s the difference between a gentleman and a rake.
I watch the guest shave, not a single nick or cut.
Perfection.
“This is a tool, not a weapon – it is not for shedding blood,” he says, cleaning the razor in the sink. “Towel?”
I hand him the hot towel and he soothes his face.
He will spend an hour preparing himself.
If he loses this fight, the mortician will have nothing to do.
No wax. No putty. No cosmetics.
“Perfection,” will be all he says, before closing the lid.

We Are Home

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One by one, the White Man’s banks collapsed.
We picked them up, dusted them off, and put them in our pockets.
For centuries, they owned most of the land. But now, once again, it was ours.
The rest came easily. Years of gambling and cigarette sales revenue, invested wisely.
Some held out, but we’ve waited centuries for this opportunity.
We belong to this land. They do not.
To Canada.
To Mexico.
To Europe.
To wherever their fathers were born, we will send them back.
Yes, it will take years to heal.
We’ve waited centuries. We are patient.
We are home.

When Angels Fuck

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They look so beautiful, but you have to wonder: how do angels fuck?
If one’s on top, the other’s on bottom.
Somebody’s gonna get their wings crushed.
If one’s behind the other, they are getting wings flapping in their face.
Yeah, I’ve read through Dante’s Paradisio, and he says nothing about fucking angels.
Once, I asked an angel how they fuck, but all I got was a drink thrown in my face.
Sure, “This must be Heaven because I see an angel” is one hell of a pickup line, but nobody’s ever told me how to follow through on it.

Carnival Man

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Shiva, God of Destruction, plays pinball all day long.
Thor, lightning-bringer, pushed a cart down Seventh Avenue.
Qetzocoatl, serpent in the corn, holds a ladder for a sales associate, peeking up her skirt.
All the old gods are like this, wasting away their days in trivial pursuits or mundane labor.
As religions die, the gods live on, shining your shoes. Filling your wine glass, begging for spare change.
Dagon is a home hospice worker, caring for his last believer.
One too many pills, and he is finally free.
There’s a carnival he’s always wanted to join.
He packs a bag, turns out the lights, and walks out the door, whistling.

Satchmo

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Satchmo! Satchmo!
Dressed to the nines!
The nines, I say!
You? You nowhere near them nines, boy!
Threes. Fours. Maybe fives if you shine up them shoes.
Me, I be the sevens. Gonna take me all day, but I wanna be the eights one day.
But the nines?
Hell no. Satchmo the nines and I ain’t Satchmo.
Once, I done seen Satchmo, and he was the tens.
No shit! Tens.
Blowin his horn, catchin the light.
Tens.
I asked Satchmo, but he just laughed.
When you dressed to the nines, everything is nines.
Blow that horn! Blow that horn, Satchmo!