The Autobiography of James T. Kirk by David A. Goodman
In early 2015, the title of an upcoming book immediately grabbed my attention: The Autobiography of Captain James T. Kirk. Contemplating the possibilities inherent with such a title made me smile. So I noted the release date and thought one day I’d go ahead and order it. Maybe when it came out in paperback. Maybe.
Then I pretty much forgot all about it. After all, I’ve read considerably more Trek non-fiction than Trek novels over the years. Like Scotty, I love curling up with a good technical journal. …
How much snow did we get?
Here’s your definitive guide.
A dusting: Wait, they said it was supposed to snow.
Half inch: Seriously? That’s it? I can’t even make a snowball out of this.
One inch: It’s so pretty.
Two inches: Snow day!
Three inches: Snuggle up, everybody, we’re staying in today.
Four inches: I should have bought more Swiss Miss.
Five inches: I told you that global warming stuff was a load of crap.
Six inches or more: REDRUM.
I figure I should write it down. Every step. Before I forget.
It’s already getting late.
Find your sister’s time machine. It’s either under her bed or stashed in the back of the top shelf of her closet. Behind her old American Girl dolls. She figures you forgot about it, that you don’t think about it every single minute of every single day. So she’s gotten careless. And really, she knows you’re too lazy and too scared to use it without the instruction manual.
Google the instruction manual. It might still be on the Black…
“Move your hands,” she whispered.
My hands were on her wrists.
Her hands were around my throat. Squeezing, forefingers pressing into my windpipe.
She brought her head closer to mine, her mouth now touching my ear.
“Move your hands,” she repeated, this time just a bit louder, something playful in her tone.
“I — ” The sound immediately spluttered, turned into a cough. I pulled harder at her wrists.
“You’re having trouble breathing,” she said, bored. “I know. Just move your hands.”
I glanced around, knowing the parking lot was empty, just as it had been when I arrived. I…
“Look,” I said, snatching the tin out of her hands, “there’s no way I’m letting you in.”
She reached for the tin.
“Ah ah,” I said, holding it just out of her reach.
She sighed. “Stop being an asshole, Denny.”
I smiled at her, lowered the tin, popped it open, grabbed a mint.
She just shook her head.
“He doesn’t want to see you,” I said. “He is a busy, busy man.”
“Can I have my mints back?”
I tossed the mint in my mouth, slid the tin into my pocket. “They’re almost gone,” I said in between bites. …