Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Backward Shuffle (floofinition) – Move mastered by animals which allows them to escape by wiggling backwards through minute openings.
In use: “To give their floof medicine, he put his knees together, his pet before him, and held onto them while his partner attempted to get the medicine into the animal’s math. To their amusement and dismay, Super executed a backward shuffle, slipped through Ron’s legs, escaping his grasp, and dashed away.”
He’d done Wordle in two moves yesterday, and he was proud and pleased. Two moves! He was usually lucky to get it done in four. But he’d taken his wife’s advice to be intuitive. And, you know, he’d been lucky.
She’d finally joined him in the office, giving him the chance to crow. After mentioning the intuition thing, he said, “So my first guess was offbeat.”
Confusion creased her expression. “Offbeat is too big.”
He stared at her. “Let me try again. My first guess was an offbeat word choice.”
“Choice is six letters. That’s too many letters.” Understanding broke on her face. “Oh, I see.”
His stare deepened. “Tell you what, honey. Let’s get some coffee in you and then I’ll continue this tale.”
Both laughed.
Clouds have descended on us. It’s like, ain’t no sunshine. There is daylight, with the sun brokering the current levels when it came into the southern end of our valley at 7:10. We’re the funnel piece here, where I-5’s traffic coming north from California is squeezed through a pass and down through the mountains, heading west before turning north toward Portland. The mountains spread away at our town’s edge.
It’s 38 F now. The weather masters tell us it’ll be cloudy all day, maybe rain, but we should see some sunlight later, as temperatures will trudge into the fifties, peaking at 55 F. Precipitation might strike the valley in the early evening, depending on how the clouds tango.
This is Tuesday, 11/22/2022, another of those days that get people excited with its numbers. “Look! Eleven. Twenty-two. It must mean something.” Maybe it does mean something beyond a calendar date, but that meaning hasn’t surfaced for me. But it is a youthful day yet, still getting its footing at nine AM. Maybe all will be revealed at a later hour.
Sunset will be arriving in less than eight hours, at 4:44 PM. Get busy, ’cause we’re losing daylight.
I have The Peripheral on my mind. Do you know this novel and the television series? William Gibson gave us the book a few years ago. I’m a fan, so I read it, dazzled again by his ideas when I finished it. Differences between novel and series fascinates me, as these things often do. I’ve gone through this with Dune, I, Robot, Sense and Sensibility, Foundation, Game of Thrones, and so many others. I experience annoyance at the differences but also respect that the differences are required to carry the story and clean it up for delivery by a different media. Movies — and television — and books are not the same. Adaptations require some sacrifices.
“Lady Marmalade” from 1974 by Labelle is cruising the mental music stream. I blame The Neurons but I also blame the wife. Of course, it started with The Neurons.
“Hey Soul Sister” by Train had been playing on my car stereo. Entering the house, I greeted my wife, “Hey, soul sister, how they hanging?”
She responded with the opening lyrics of “Lady Marmalade”, “Hey sister, go sister, soul sister, go sister.” The Neurons answered, “Oh we know that song. It goes like this.” And it’s been going ever since.
Coffee time, yeah? Stay positive and test negative. Hope your weather is favorable and the news is good.
Cheers
I’d been selected to be a messenger. Don’t know who chose me, nor the message.
I was waiting to get the message in my place, a small apartment in a large high-rise building. Few windows let in light but natural sources outside were diminished by storms. Friends and acquaintances visited. Several noticed that I had four model cars in a case. These were Formula 1 cars from the 1970s and 1980s, 1/12 scale. People bent down to look into the black case to see them. As they began commenting, I turned on the case lights so they could see them. Up front on the right was the Ferrar 312 T which Lauda drove to championships. Behind it a little was a Mclaren MP4/4, a model driven by Senna and Prost, with the markings and settings for Prost’s vehicle. I explained these things to everyone, but then, the time for me to act as messenger arrived.
The message was given on a slip of paper. I went out and delivered it, no problem, despite a deluge. Coming back, I descended a long, steep hill on an asphalt path. Left of me was busy thoroughfare, twelve lanes of newly paved road, packed with cars. At the bottom of the hill was an intersection where a wide new road came down from the right. I needed to cross that wide road. My building was on the other side. I could see its parking lot.
Rain still poured as thunder rumbled. I stepped onto the road into the crosswalk, then looked back and left to ensure the cars turning right from the main road were letting me pass. They were stopped and waiting, so I waved thanks and proceeded. Mind shifting to the traffic coming on the road which I crossed, I saw a huge tanker truck approaching, going way too fast for conditions. I stopped to await the outcome.
The long truck, a blue tractor with a silver trailer, was rushing toward the intersection, sliding with his brakes locked. As he passed me, the truck entered a slow jack knife and then fell over onto its side and slid more, stopping just after entering the intersection. Everyone saw it coming and stopped. No one hit it and it sat on its own, alone in the intersection.
A young Black man on a blue bike had been riding down the hill toward the intersection. When the truck arrived and jack knifed, the bike guy braked hard, slid, lost control and was thrown from the bike.
I rushed to help, recognizing that he was also a messenger. He was conscious but dazed, sitting on the roadway, his twisted bike to one side, rain drenching him. Others came to help him, too. I told them to call for an ambulance. Someone suggested helping the truck driver, but I disdained that; he’d brought that on himself, I thought, and others were undoubtably going to help him. A glance that way confirmed that people were at the truck.
I asked the bike rider, “Are you a messenger?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Are you hurt?”
He shook his head. People went to help him up. “No,” I said. “He had a big tumble. There may be injuries which we don’t know. Wait for the EMT.”
Then I asked him, “Where does your message go? I’ll take it for you.”
Dream end.
Michael Seidel, writer 