Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofytum (floofinition) – The innermost sanctuary in an animal’s resting or meeting space, open only to priests.
In use: “People have found that their pets like kennels as a floofytum as only other animals are small enough to enter and humans are forced to remain outside, giving the floofs privacy and security. Pets without kennels will make up their own floofytums in drawers, closets, baskets, or under
The streetlights were on, unmoored, half-seen yellow orbs floating over either side of the street.
Snow smothered dusk’s dimming light. No one else was on the street. Dressed in blue jeans, a shirt, and tennis shoes – which had holes in the soles that he’d mended with pieces of cardboard – he ran, shivering and sniffling, up the street past the warm-looking suburban houses. Most seemed half-buried in snow. Windblown snow stuck to his clothing and hair and stressed his cheeks with icy daggers. Shoving his fingers deep into his tight jeans’ pockets, keeping at least those warm, he licked snot off his nose, lifted his shoulders, and ran, catching slides and racing on.
Exploding into home, he rushed to a heater duct and stood in front of it, dripping, drying, shivering, warming. enjoying the heat. Mom, orchestrating laundry not far away, turned and stared at him, her hands continuing their folding. “Where is your coat?” she asked. Then answered herself, “Don’t tell me you forgot it again.”
When he nodded, yes, her shoulders sagged and she snapped, “Oh my God.” A warm towel was pulled from the dryer, shook out, and handed to him. “Why in God’s name didn’t you go back for it?”
He shrugged. “I was hungry. I wanted to get home.”
She issued a familiar tongue click of disappointment. He felt too stupid to be her son.
He was probably right.
Boy, have I got memories of this! LOL
Welcome to another week of writing. ‘Tis the season…as Christmas day approaches, the weather for some of us might have already started to change drastically. For some it can bring cheer and merriment while for others it can become a bad thing that separates them from their loved ones. Your task today, if you choose to accept it is to, “Write about a day in the cold, when you forgot your jacket.”
Have a great weekend and don’t stop writing!
W.P. # 210 Write about a day in the cold, when you forgot your jacket.
Someone asked him, “How are you doing?” “Good,” he answered with enthusiasm.
He didn’t know if his answer was true. He didn’t know how he felt. He thought how he ‘felt’ was a complicated question, and the truth about the answer slid along its own spectrum, shifting by the second, the minute, the day.
‘Good’ was probably a safe if reductive average.
The best thing he could do is write with the conviction that he was telling the best possible story in the best possible way. Thoughts such as is it too long, too complicated or convoluted or boring to others had to be shoved aside. He needed to write it like it was ordained to be wondrous.
Otherwise, he would just stop. And then, what would he do?
Yes, he had to write with that conviction.
My fellow Earthers. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. It’s also Friday, December 9, 2022.
I’ve been following a local online debate. A newly elected city councilor wants to change the time when the meeting begins, move it up an hour. He argues that will allow more people to attend. Well, let the debate begin.
So each side uses the same argument. There were no complaints or calls for the meeting start time to change before the new councilor brought it up. Also, each side points out, the meetings are televised, streamed, and recorded. It feels like another variation of the daylight savings time argument, which can be reduced to, which is better for me? By extension, if it’s better for me, it’s better for all.
It’s foggy outside, Alexa tells me, and 34 F. She’s staked today’s high at 46 F. Says, expect rain. Except there’s no fog outside my windows. I can see distant mountains where snow is sprinkled across the green pine ridge. The winds are picking up. A drizzle has begun. The house floofs are not happy. They’re clambering for reparations because the sun isn’t giving them the shine they like. All reparations have been rejected — kibble, canned food, treats, and catnip. Attention is okay, they admit. They will take some scratching and stroking, but when I stop, they shout, more, more, more, like Billy Idol in fur, with less piercings.
As for the sun, it curved over the earth’s shape and into our valley at 7:28 this morning but remains sequestered behind sturdy clouds. Departure time for sunshine is 4:39 PM.
You can probably guess the song will be Billy Idol with “Rebel Yell” from 1983. Soon as that comparison went through my gray matter, The Neurons exclaimed, “Ooh, ‘Rebel Yell’, Billy Idol, yeah,” and began playing the song. Bourbon called Rebel Yell inspired the tune. I guess that’s a kind of scratching that satisfies some itches.
Speaking of scratches and itches, I’ll need some coffee. This is the first day of the rest of my life, you know. Stay positive and test negative. Here’s Billy with the music. I must admit that the video, with the musicians sneering, smirking, and posturing, gave me a laugh. Hope you enjoy it. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 