HUMOR
If Only I Had Been Immaculately Conceived, I Wouldn’t Have This Problem
What I inherited from my mortal father
When Dad was fourteen, he said, “Mother and Father, I’m old enough to have a place of my own.”
“Have a place of your own then,” they said.
So Dad arranged for himself a little bedroom out in the garage, a detached garage, which stood forty feet from the house.
And out there, every night, he was scared to death.
The forty feet of separation allowed a square dance of hell to romp around Dad’s little backwater settlement.
He tried to sleep, but wind talked to the woods and the woods answered in creaks and groans.
What were they talking about?
Kid murdering.
And high overhead, heavy clouds double-stuffed the night with darkness. Above the darkness: moons. Full moons every night. The clouds blocked the bone-white light, but not the feeling of being watched by moons: cold, cyclops gods who study the death of teenage boys in garages for sport.
This is usually the end of the story.
Nothing happens.
