Tag: tragedy

By The Axe

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Lying under a massive oak, his crushed chest filled with one last gasp of air, Earl remembered what his father told him many years ago.
“Live by the sword, die by the sword,” he said.
“But I don’t use a sword,” said Earl. “I use an axe.”
Earl’s father frowned. “I don’t know how you’ll die,” he said. “Maybe you should switch to a sword?”
“Swords aren’t very good at chopping down trees,” said Earl.
“Then I guess you’ll die by the tree,” said Earl’s father. “Live by the axe, die by the tree.”
“Timber,” whispered Earl, and he died.

Goodnight, Bum

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After my daughter died and my wife left me, I missed a lot of things I had taken for granted.
The thing I missed most of all was reading bedtime stories.
I knew the stories by heart, we all do. But there’s something special about opening a book and reading aloud.
It’s not just the pictures. It’s something about that book. Holding it up while you’re sitting at the foot of the bed, nightlight’s on, covers pulled up.
Now, I go out into the city’s alleys and read bedtime stories to the homeless.
It’s not the same. Certainly smells worse.

It’s all fun and games until someone loses an I

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Frantic, Marcia followed the paramedics rolling her daughter through the ER into the trauma room.
“I swear, I didn’t know!” shouted Marcia. “Oh, God, can you save her? Please?”
A nurse grabbed Marcia by the shoulder and tried to calm her down.
“How old is she?” asked the nurse.
“Seven,” said Marcia. “She’s turning eight next week. She turns eight next week!”
Marcia babbled and cried some more while the nurse looked at a box in Marcia’s hand.
“SCRABBLE: Ages 8 and up” it said.
The nurse shook her head. Third time this week.
Damn parents, always rushing their kids.

The Zombietron is not a toy

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Attorneys no longer have to worry about their witnesses turning up dead.
Now you can just stick the witness or victim in one end of the Zombietron, pour in a teaspoon of nanobots, and let them soak in the machine overnight.
Sure, they reek like a latrine pit full of rotten meat, but functional and lucid zombies are admissible as evidence.
The worst part of the process is watching them die again. I wonder if they suffer.
So, what happens when you put a living person in the Zombietron?
I don’t know.
Hey, let’s grab a bum and find out.

El Tocino-Envuelto

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Where Pizarro failed, Sir Walter swore he’d succeed.
He’d find El Dorado, the legendary City of Gold!
Through all of his expeditions, he never did find El Dorado.
But he was quite fond of a town called El Tocino-Envuelto, which roughly translates to The Bacon-Wrapped One.
Where El Dorado was supposedly paved with gold, the streets of Tocino-Envuelto were paved with pork.
The Spanish outpost of San Thome was rumored to have the best applesauce in the New World. Raleigh craved it for his pork chops.
It would ultimately be his son’s death and, by the headsman’s axe, his undoing.

The Finisher

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They call us Finishers.
When the subject has nothing more of use to give, we finish them off.
Now and then, something of use comes out, like a final drop of lemon juice from a squeezed and pulverized lemon.
We don’t care. We’re there to punish, not interrogate.
Some administrator got it in their head that Finishers should be licensed medical practitioners. Never mind that we have one purpose: to cause harm. We cannot take the Hippocratic Oath.
That administrator vanished the other day.
Want to hear a tape of them screaming, or would you like to see their tongue?

The Wife

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The old man’s lawyers called his wife.
“We’re on vacation,” growled the wife.
“We’re concerned,” said the lawyers. “Now that he’s been found guilty, the fine your husband faces is disastrously large.”
“Are my assets safe?” asked the wife.
“No,” said the lawyers. “What’s yours is his. Everything goes.”
The wife pondered. “Is there a way out of this?”
“He’s guilty, but not sentenced,” said the lawyers. “If he dies before sentencing, the judgment vanishes.”
“And you get paid,” said the wife.
They gave her sugar pills. She gave them his heart medication.
She woke up a very rich widow.

The Hometown Hero

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Eleven wins, State, and Honor Roll four years running.
Bobby’s the hero of Centerville High.
Until the cheerleaders accused him of rape. I said cheerleaders. All of them.
Bobby wore his letter jacket to court, claimed innocence.
Uh huh. Yeah, right.
Didn’t help one bit. Judge threw the book at him.
After five years, the DNA got re-tested.
No match.
Suddenly, the cheerleaders did a 180. Bobby’s innocent.
The governor ordered Bobby released, and he was wheeled out to freedom.
He’d taken a knife to the spine on the inside.
The same knife they found in the head cheerleader’s throat.

Robbing the Dead

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Haven’t you robbed enough from the man?
His home.
His son.
His strength.
His life.
Body’s not cold yet, laying on the couch, they’re talking about taking one last thing.
“He’s got one of those dick implant pumps,” Catfish says. “Good model, too.”
“Cut it out, and we’ll sell it in Mexico,” says The Bitch.
They go into the kitchen, looking for knives and a bag.
Don’t need to be delicate when the man’s dead.
“Wait,” says The Bitch.
“Yeah,” says Catfish. “This ain’t right.”
“No,” says The Bitch. “Put him on the floor. We can sell that couch, too.”

Observer Twelve

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Observer Twelve kept his seven eyestalks glued to the monitors flicking through signals from Earth, taking notes as interesting things came up.
Four buildings full of Observers were dedicated to keeping tabs on this information-rich corner of the galaxy, a constant source of amusement and concern.
One day, the endless chaos of entertainment, news, sports and sex polarized into panic and desperation.
Then, nothing.
All signals ceased.
Some Observers were reassigned to other units, but most were laid off. Earth had been a rare gold mine of signals.
Ex-Observer Twelve spat and cursed the “Iranians” for ruining a well-paying gig.