Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofgenue (catfinition) – a naive kitten or young cat. Floofgenues were often referred to as females in traditional catology, but it’s now considered acceptable to apply the term to male or female cats.”
In use: “The old tomcat recognized the white newcomer as a floofgenue, and took the other under his paw to teach him the proper way to be a cat.”
Pawticuffs (catfinition) – a blow with a paw; combat with paws without extended claws.
In use: “Sometimes, when Pogo was irritated, pawticuffs would ensue, but the big ginger boy kept his claws retracted, an acknowledgement to them that the loving cat would never hurt them.”
Two seventeen was on the clock when Dee decided she would get up to wait. Rising, she walked downstairs with the slowness demanded of her diseased-ravaged ninety-year-old body, wheezing as she went. They said she’d beaten cancer, but it didn’t feel like it. Her feet and hips ached. So did her neck and her jaw. She could barely raise her right arm enough to dress. Drugs did nothing for that pain and movement any longer. They wanted to scrape the joint.
Turning on lights, she walked around the kitchen and dining room, looking out windows. It was dark, and she was alone. Although her eyes, mind, and body felt tired, sleep was like a Mega-millions lottery ticket this week. She’d cleaned the house, washed the bed linens, baked and cooked, and worried.
Prowling the kitchen, she regarded the black forest cake on the table. He’d told her that was his favorite once, so she always had one on hand, with candles. She didn’t know how old he was. He would never say. Based on his annual visits, he was sixty, but he’d been an adult on every visit, so he had to be older, didn’t he? Sometimes, he looked older. Once, he’d seemed like a very old man. His hair had been almost gone. What remained was gray and white. It’d been shocking.
Rubbing her face, she sighed. She was too tired to think. She’d been looking forward to this, but she also wanted it done. She wanted coffee, but for God’s sake, it was two in the morning. Once it was over, she’d want to sleep. Yes, but she felt so tired, maybe a little cup of decaf would help keep her alert. She didn’t want to fall asleep and miss him.
No, she would not miss him. That would be a first. If he came, he would wake her. If he didn’t come —
If he came, he would wake her, if he had the time. He was always so busy, busier every time. That’s what it seemed like.
And last time —
Leaning forward against the sink to hold herself up, she entered a reverie. Last time, he’d been in the worst condition that she’d ever seen. Blood all over him, and so gaunt, with disheveled hair. God. She’d wanted to hug and kiss him but the sight of him froze her.
“Peter. What happened to you?” she said. She scanned him with her nurse’s eyes for wounds and spotted several.
“War,” he said.
“War?” she said with shock. Recent news events bounced through her thoughts. “What war?”
He shook his head. “There’s not time for that.”
“But you’re hurt — ”
“I’m okay, Mom, don’t worry,” he said, but a wince crossed his face, turning into a grimace. “You should have seen the other guy. Seriously.”
“Your arm is bleeding,” she said, moving toward him. “So is your abdomen.”
Peter moved away from her. “I know. Stay back. I don’t want to get blood on you.”
“But you may have major internal injuries.”
“I know, but there’s not enough time for you to do anything, Mom. I’m going to be gone in a moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just had to see you.”
“Why can’t you stay longer?”
He had not answered. Peter had disappeared.
So, she had little hope for this year that it would be a longer visit.
She’d read The Time-Traveler’s Wife when it was released. So much of that book was like her experience with her son. But when she’d mentioned it, he’d said, “No, it’s nothing like that. It might seem random, but your visits are part of a much larger timetable.”
“My visits.” The way he said that, she knew it had more meaning. “You’re the one visiting.”
He’d smiled. “It’s really too complicated to explain. This visit would need to be a lot longer.”
She closed her eyes against the press of pain. It had taken her years to accept Peter was real and that his visits were real. Poor little Peter had lived less than a month. That loss remained a jagged wound in her soul. His first visits —
Her Fitbit’s alarm buzzed, reminding her of the time. She’d set it at his birth time, two thirty-four A.M. He always showed up then. As she pressed the button to stop it, he said, “Hi, Mom.”
Dee started and turned. “Oh, Peter. You scared me.” She laughed. “Right on time.”
He looked great. He came to her and hugged her tight, giving her a kiss as she tried saying, “I didn’t know if you’d make it,” while kissing him back.
“I’ll always make it, Mom,” he said, releasing her.
She drew back. “Let me look at you.” Her eyes brimmed with pride. He was so tall and good-looking, with a lean and athletic body, and beautiful green eyes. It was the best he’d ever looked. He could be a movie star. “You have a beard.”
“I do?” He grinned at her. “When did that happen?”
Dee wasn’t sure if he joked.
Smiling at her, Peter said, “How are you feeling?”
She sighed. “Oh, I’m tired and old. I’m in constant pain.”
That’s not what she wanted to talk about. There wasn’t time for it.
“You want something to eat?” She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “Do you have time to sit down?”
Regret spilled into his expression. “No, Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t have the time this year. I tried, but….” He sighed, looking tired.
At least he wasn’t wounded, or older than her. Remembering who he was and what day this was, she said, “Happy birthday, honey. I wanted to say that to you while you were still here.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking past her at the table. He grinned. “Is that black forest cake?”
Nodding, she smiled. “It’s your favorite.”
He nodded back. “Cut me a piece. I’ll take it with me.”
“Really?” she said. “Do we have time to for me to sing happy birthday first?”
“Only if you cut the cake while you sing,” he said, “and you sing really fast.”
She rushed to do so. “I put everything out, just in case there was time.” Picking up the knife, she sang, “Happy birthday — ”
She stopped as she looked for him.
He was gone.
“Happy birthday, son,” she said to the empty room. “Happy birthday.”
The question before the household today is, “Is the spider in the master bath a black widow?”
My wife noticed it this morning, notified me, and left. She wasn’t sure if it was a black widow.
Our basic spider policy is live and let live. However, we usually relocate black widows, if they’re in the house. I know of one that lives on the front porch, and two in the garage. I’ve not seen any of them for a while. They might have gone away on vacation. I don’t know if spiders do that, or where they go if they do. Does Disney operate a place called Spider Land, where they have little spider rides and play games, like, catch the fly?
I tried checking the spider out. A big spider, it’s down by the floor in the corner, about a foot right of where my little toe on my right foot would be when I’m shaving. Its web didn’t quite look like a black widow’s web. It was now also day, and that area is pretty lit. I don’t think those are black widow conditions, but maybe this one was a trend setter.
The light wasn’t good, and there was an issue with getting too close. The issue was that I was nervous. I enjoy an active imagination and watching movies. The product of that formula is that I worry about a spider leaping out at me, like they sometimes do in movies. If it did, it would probably land on my check, something that I didn’t favor as an outcome.
So, I couldn’t see the spider well. Well, then, I’d capture and examine it, and go from there. I got some plastic ware from the kitchen and set out on my mission. Positioning myself, I gave myself a pep talk. Be fast and sure, because it was going to run. Once I had it in the plastic, I’d need to cover it with the lid. Okay, good plan.
In position, I shoved the plastic forward.
I’d overlooked one thing: the freaking little plastic piece was too big for the space.
Naturally, I’d broken the web, alerting the spider that something big was after it. It ran for cover, dashing into a space under the sink.
Nuts.
That all happened two hours ago. Since then, I decided, aha, I’ll take a picture of it, or video. But I just checked; the spider has not re-emerged.
I’m sure there’s another act to this minor drama, but first, there’s an intermission.
Some days, I think I’m genetically pre-disposed to working hard to make myself miserable by imagining all the things that might…go…wrong. But it’s the same mechanism that enables me to imagine stories and others’ lives, so I co-exist with it as a strength and weakness. It’s always a matter of finding that balance and riding it.
This isn’t the usual rock stuff that I listen to, but “Rubberband Man” by the Spinners is a secret favorite song. I enjoy the lyrics, beat, bass, vocals, and lyrics. Upbeat, but mellow, it’s a song that makes me move as I re-stream it in my mind while walking.
“You’re bound to lose control when the rubberband man starts to jam.”
Pretty well captures it all. It’s not a panacea for what bothers you in your life, but writing can help you, if it doesn’t kill you.
Floofdoggle (catfinition) – an impractical or wasteful activity or project involving one or more cats.
In use: “His penchant for floofdoggles included trying to train his cats to step on a mat that activated the food dispenser, and another one that would turn on a water bowl so the cats could have fresh food and water. Unfortunately, the leery felines chose to go around the mat to get to the food and water bowls, forcing him to devise other ways to satisfy their needs.”
When you connect to the Internet, do you sometimes make the noises that your old modem made, just for old times’ sake?
Why yes, I do.
I’m bouncing along the spectrum this week, sliding from hopeless negativity into enthusiastic, boundless optimism.
I know there’s a sweet spot there. Just can’t seem to find that balance.
That’s not overly surprising, and I don’t knowingly let myself fixate on it. ‘Knowingly’ is key, because my mind has created traps that I fall into without realizing, following worn paths that I should avoid, except they’re so damn easy to follow. Do you write fiction or pursue goals and dreams? If so, you might understand what I mean when I refer to these dark, weary paths.
I don’t know all the nuances that trigger my spectrum slides. I have ideas and insights into that process. When I win writing battles, my spirits soar toward the positive end. Good food, a good time, and a surprising compliment can take me there, too. Struggling with writing decisions, events that seem beyond my control, and simple frustration can drag me down into sour, doleful depths.
I know those things. Unseen health issues affect me with sneak attacks. Or, are they health issues? Maybe they’re not. I note, I feel off, and ask myself, what’s going on? Is it too little sleep, something I ate, part of the aging process, the first symptoms of a disease, or intellectual activities affecting my emotional activities affecting my physical activities affecting my spiritual activities affecting my intellectual activities?
Yes, that circle exists. It’s more complex than those few arcs described. That’s the spectrum. It’s not an orderly, linear line, but a circle, perhaps even a mobius. I think of it as a spectrum on a circle. Abstract visualization is one of my strengths, so I turn to it to help me think through things.
Being aware of the circle’s existence, like the monster in the dark, is helpful. Dreams can sometimes help, but last night’s dreams about aliens and seeking understanding seemed to highlight my morass rather than illuminating a way through it. Bummer. Fortunately, finding a satisfying resolution to whatever artistic-writing-intellectual problem is challenging me helps as well.
Today, after dwelling on the dreams during my morning coffee, I did find a satisfying approach to resolving the problem (which, yes, was of a writing nature), feeding my positive energy. It came while I dawdled, putting aside my normal routine to read some fiction and goof off, rather than to go out to walk and write. After just a few pages of distracting my brain with another’s fiction, my sub-conscious announced, aha, and an idea was floated. The solution isn’t fully formed, but has enough substance that I can grasp and shape it into something more and move myself forward.
Knowing this minutiae about myself is helpful to coping with its repercussions and trying to contain it. It’s easy to let these things eat me up, starting a more self-destructive circle. I encountered those when I was younger, when I didn’t know how to sort myself, when the territory that is me was darker and more unknown. I did a lot of destruction to myself and my life in those days. Fortunately, others helped me with patience, kindness, and insights. When I think back on some of the craziness, I gulp with amazement that I’m alive, intact, and not incarcerated.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 