Bling“Carry me across the threshold,” she told me. “It’s tradition.”Bling by ninjababy
“Well, dear, it’s a simple question of weight ratios. A five ounce bird cannot carry a one pound coconut, after all,” I quipped.
“Are you calling me fat?”
“It’s impossible for you to be any other size, love.”
“Just what are you saying?”
I realized at this point that perhaps I hadn’t thought this through enough. “Nevermind, dear. Up you go!”
My knees shook as I lifted her, shuffled forward, then sat her down.
“Now that wasn’t so bad!”
What could be done? I was in love with a robot.
Walking ShadowsThere was no moon the night my father died. He always said the darkest nights were his favorite because he felt like a walking shadow. People think they can’t be seen in the darkness, but I saw them.Walking Shadows by ninjababy
My father and I were in the forest on a hunting trip. I made a circle around our fire, looking for extra firewood or anything else that caught my eye. I was behind a tree looking over at his face in the fire when two shadows came up behind him and started stabbing him.
I saw their faces in the light of the fire, even recognized one of them. Then I ran. It was a long time before I stopped running, and when I did, I hid in a bush.
Cowards, both of them. I thought as I cried. Sneaking up behind him, two on one; that wasn’t a fair fight!
I decided right then that when I killed them, it would be face-to-face.
Eight years in the woods taught me a lot of things, and I knew the sky as well as I knew my own face. It was a few days before the new moon, 10 years since my father’s
The Gauntlet28. Thwap, slam. 26. Smack, thump, thud. 23. Kill 23 more, that was the objective.The Gauntlet by ninjababy
One more body fell under my weapon, and I took a momentary pause to wipe off the blood. The small break allowed me to look around at the carnage: a sea of corpses.
I didn’t want it to be this way, this was supposed to be the last resort. Plan A didn’t show up, and that left me alone. I heard the sound of more footsteps.
I steeled myself for the oncoming attack and raised my fly swatter.
The art of geniusWhen you hit thirty or so, you start to realise that your life won’t amount to much. Barring catastrophe or the sudden discovery of a hitherto latent genius you’re unlikely to hit the headlines. That’s what women mean when they talk about biological clocks and feeling broody, and men when they talk about sowing oats and getting their feet under the table. It’s this urge to have achieved something. Copulation mainly. “My loins are fertile,” you wish to announce to the world, rather than, “I was third best fascia and soffit salesman in my area last month,” or, “I spent all weekend watching Taggart reruns in my socks.”The art of genius by futilitarian
So I hit thirty and had a kid, because it’s what you’re supposed to do. And the child is, no thanks to me, well-adjusted and healthy and starting secondary school next year and lives with its mother about three hundred miles away. I see it biannually, which is more than sufficient for both of u