Most kids have imaginary friends.
I had an imaginary theater critic.
He’d go on and on about Broadway flops and the Tony Awards, or the latest Sondheim production.
I’d yell at him to shut the hell up.
We lived in Iowa. We never went to Broadway.
We didn’t go to the movies or watch plays on television, either.
I never tried out for plays in school because I was homeschooled.
I thought about trading with my friends for their imaginary friends, but I didn’t have any.
Because I was homeschooled, and my only friend was Bert, raving about South Pacific.
Tag: mystery
Moonbeams
I invented something.
It’s in my workshop.
Want to see it?
Okay, but you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone about it.
Here it is.
What?
No, it’s not under the cloth… it’s the cloth!
See it shimmer and glitter?
It’s made of moonbeams.
I caught them on a bright moonlit night, and wove them into a cloth.
Well, not at first. I spun them into yarn and knitted them, but it just far was too coarse.
This cloth is a tight weave.
Of moonbeams.
That shimmer and glimmer.
And I invented it.
Me.
On a moonlit night.
Drive Swap
I trusted you with my life.
I gave you the backup drive, and what did you do?
You got drunk, and did a restore with mine instead of a backup of yours.
Now you’re me. And you don’t want me to restore you with the right drive and files.
You know I’m afraid to be overwritten. You’re me, after all.
Well, sorta.
There was some corruption. Because you were drunk.
I’m sorry about the broken arm, but you broke my nose.
You wiped your drive, but unlike you, I can be trusted to keep your spare safe.
Sit still, stupid.
To Don’t
A lot of people make TO DO lists to get their chores done.
I stuck mine to a corkboard, and I put colored pins in chores I need to get done, removing pins once they’ve gotten done.
However, some people make TO DON’T lists to list all the things they do to waste time, and then they try not to do those things.
I tried a TO DON’T list, but the first thing I put on it was my TO DON’T list.
A paradox wormhole opened up, swallowing everything in the room.
I scratched “Laundry” off my TO DO list.
The Activist
A woman filed a complaint against the restaurant because we asked her not to breast-feed her baby outside of the bathroom.
After doing a little research, we found out that she was a woman’s rights activist who had a history of filing complaints like these.
A while back, she’d had breast cancer and a double radical mastectomy, and after the reconstructive surgery her nipples were well-made but completely nonfunctional tattoos.
But even odder was that she didn’t actually have a baby. She used a lifelike doll that she carried around.
We set up a quiet table in the back anyway.
Cans
I never go outside. It’s not safe out there anymore.
I get everything delivered.
I know what time of year it is by the designs on the Coke cans.
They do those polar bears in winter, fireworks in summer, and scary stuff in Halloween time.
And Santa for Christmas.
A kid comes to deliver the Coke and groceries, and he takes the empties out to the corner for pickup.
“You drink so much of that stuff, why don’t you get the two-liter bottles?” says the kid.
I like it in cans.
And I told the store to send another kid.
Where’s The Candlestick Maker?
Theodore Baker didn’t like being called Theodore or Theo.
So, he called himself “The.” As in “The Baker.”
He hung out with his friend Theodore Butcher after school.
He also started calling himself “The.” As in “The Butcher.”
They thought it was cool.
Others didn’t. Kids made fun of them, asking where “The Candlestick Maker” was, and shouting “Rub A Dub Dub!” at them.
They were pushed around, picked on, and bullied constantly.
So, when they were cornered, The Butcher got out a butcher’s knife and The Baker pulled out a rolling pin.
The bullies ran.
But they couldn’t hide.
Murders, She Got Away With
The thing I never figured out about the Murder, She Wrote television series was how a town like Cabot Cove, Maine could have so many murders.
Despite having less than 4000 people, every week someone in Cabot Cove would get killed.
Oh, sure, some were tourists, but after a few seasons, you’d think the sheriff would notice something. Or demand a raise.
This got me to wondering if Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer, was also a murderer.
I mean, she figured out every murder, and the alleged murderer denied it… maybe she’d set them up?
Murders, she got away with!
Delivery
I’m waiting for a delivery.
It’s supposed to be delivered today.
It’s something I don’t want delivered to me while I’m at work, and I couldn’t let them leave it on back patio either, so I took the day off of work.
While waiting, I’ve cleaned the kitchen, bathrooms, vacuumed all the carpets twice, and even scrubbed out a stain in the hallway that I’ve never had the time to get to.
Then, the doorbell rings.
And… it’s…
The exterminator?
Not the delivery I’m expecting, but at least he’s delivering a toxic cloud of death to my insect roommates, yes?
Watching the snow fall
Old Bert looks out the window.
Green. Brown.
The first of his ninety Winters without snow.
He shakes his head. “This won’t do.”
His hand trembles as he reaches for the phone.
There are no buttons. No dial.
He picks it up, brings it up to his ear, and gently whispers “Snow.”
Looking out the window, he watches snowflakes appear, slowly at first, then more… and more…
He smiles. “Thank you,” he whispers, putting the receiver down.
His heart will give out tomorrow morning. They’ll find him in his chair, looking out the window.
Watching the snow fall. And smiling.