Sunday’s Theme Music

We clang into Sunday and draw up with a hiss of brakes. Slow down, you move too fast. It’s Sunday, February 19, 2023.

Many people accelerate activities on Sunday. This is the one day they’re free of other commitments like work and school. They rush around, getting things done, because this is Sunday, and this is the only day they have to get things done. They’re Sunday dynamos. My wife is sometimes like that.

37 F now, the weather cats tell me it’ll be 52 F for the day’s high. Winting still holds in Ashlandia. Sunshine that was turned on about 7:02 this morning illuminates a marbled blue and white bowl overhead. Sun time ends at 5:48 this evening.

Papi is at the office door, giving me the look. He’s talking to me now and again, small, high barks. Yes, he is a cat, but he likes to bark. Maybe he thinks I understand barking better than meowing. He’s wrong. I interpret his sounds by using my FVD – Floof Voice Decoder – Mark IV. The FVD tells me that Papi is either asking to go back outside, wants to play and be petted, or is telling me that people are breaking into the house. I pet him and let him out. I go out with him onto the back patio and enjoy winting, lapping lap up sunshine and cold, fresh air like it’s beer and nuts. Sunshine kisses buds on tree branches. Robins, scrub jays, and others are busy with food gathering and arguing. Papi goes on alert for whatever he can stalk.

Heads up, there’s winter storm advisory for Ashlandia for tomorrow.

Lot of personal stuff going on in my head. Nothing critical, just annoyances. The Neurons end up feeding “Waiting for the World to Change” by John Mayer, 2006. A little too mellow for my buds, it’s a good enough, and sums up my reaction to my frustration in the greater sense, I’m waiting for changes over which I have little control or input. That’s life, it seems.

Stay pos, and enjoy Sunday for what it is to you – a day of rest, worship, errands, or chilling. Some will be working. I’ll do my usual, head to the coffee shop and write, then back to the house for chores. Here’s the music. Cheers

February 19, 2023 0

February 18, 2023 1

The Writing Moment

As an aspiring fiction writer, his typing, spelling, grammar, and punctuation skills were terrible. His output would be prodigious if he could improve those.

February 18, 2023 2

Braggafloofcious

Braggafloofcious (floofinition) – Being boastful about a floof.

In use: “Michael was very braggafloofcious, always telling floof tales about the orange boiz and their many presents, and how high they could jump.”

February 18, 2023 0

Saturday’s Theme Music

A whitewashed sky met the sun as it hopped the horizon at 7:05 this morning. 36 F now, the weather goons says to us, they say it’s gonna be 49 F before the sun’s sojourn over Ashlandia ends on this Saturday, Feb. 18, 2023.

I’ve found that feeding Papi the ginger wunderfloof at 5:30 slows his roll. Yes, that’s AM. I can do it in my sleep. He gets so happy about having a little tin of something opened and spooned out. Amazing that he only nibbles five bites before declaring that it was enough and heads to the kibble. He enjoys the pomp and ceremony of wet food twice a day but he’s a kibbler at heart. Tucker eats it all. The wet food is attacked with low purrs and gusto. Very sweet and funny to watch. Specially at 5:30 AM. He reasons, if the other boy is getting some, he’s getting some, too. Then it’s back to the bed beside me for Tucker, wearing a cat food fragrance, washing himself with such rigor that the bed shakes me awake, and I think, earthquake. Naw, just a floofquake.

The Neurons are singing “(Absolutely) Story of A Girl” by Nine Days (2000). All started with a cat. Whole story begins back in the eighties and my main floof of the period, Rocky, sole survivor of his litter and a hoarding situation. He and I became acquainted in Germany when he fit in my palm and his eyes weren’t open. His mom wanted nothing to do with him but he was a true sweetfloof, total playhead. When “(Absolutely) Story of A Girl” was on the air as part of the rotations, I naturally sang “This is the story of a cat” to hijm. I mean, who wouldn’t, right? Decades later, the song was revived for Papi this morning. “This is the story of a cat, who woke me up to go out and come back.” Time after time, as Lauper would say.

Stay pos, catch the light and tame the day. I’ll get right on that as soon as my brain has more coffee. Here’s the tune. Know it? Cheers

February 18, 2023 0

February 17, 2023 0

Upfloofing

Upfloofing (floofinition) 1. Increasing the number of animals in a household.

In use: “She’d gone to the shelter to bring home a kitten to keep her dog company after his feline friend passed away, and ended up upfloofing with a bonded set of two kittens and puppy. All seemed joyous to be in one another’s company when they were introduced.”

2. Making changes to a building or furniture to accommodate animal(s).

In use: “Upfloofing the house was done by adding a flooftio on the back where the household pets could safely relax in their own little enclosed area and still enjoy being outside.”

February 17, 2023 3

February 17, 2023 0

Option Three

A mail carrier delivered it. Plasticized black envelope. White labels. His name and address, and the sender, Quest Of, Hershey, PA.

We will be watching you. Failure to completely comply with all instructions will result in immediate termination.

He’d read about terminations. Scoffers who said they would open it on Youtube, Instagram, TicTok, whatever. All vanished in a puff of flame. Comments said, “That’s so fake. How can a company do that? It has to be fake.”

His hands shook. Doors and blinds were closed. He’d agreed. Reveal nothing.

A tab said, “Pull here to open”. He wrestled it for ten minutes before winning. Sweat covered his face by then and he huffed air. Good workout.

The envelope was emptied and placed into the sink. Pale white smoke rose. The envelope splashed into white and pink powder, like Kool-Aid before you add water, and vanished. It smelled like fresh-baked cherry pie. He wished he had cherry pie. Thought about going to the bakery. Just for two seconds.

The ignored treasure was on the counter. A silver ring. A black one. Red marble.

Glittery italics script spelled his name and the date on each.

“Place the silver ring on a finger on your right hand,” instructions directed. “Place the black ring on a finger on your left hand. Then, hold the red ball in both hands and close your eyes.”

That was it? His mouth was so damn dry. Nerves hummed like power lines in the wind.

Should he sit?

Do it in the kitchen?

Would anything be left of him afterward?

He wrote a submission. Months ago. Then re-wrote, edited, revised, wrote it again. Then sat on it before pressing, send.

“I want option three so I may go back to 1962 and kill Lee Harvey Oswald before he assassinates President John F. Kennedy in 1963. I think that if I succeed, this world and its future will be better because President Kennedy represented youth, positive energy, and the future. Our country and the world has lost its moral compass since President Kennedy was killed. Bringing him back could restore it.”

He sincerely believed what he wrote. Though he was four when Kennedy was killed. The mourning and aftermath imprinted him. He wasn’t surprised that he was selected. He was pure of mind, a true believer.

He didn’t tell anyone what he’d done. Secrecy was required. He and his friends talked about Quest Of and its options, but he never told anyone that he’d applied, though, after one or two beers, staying shut about it was a killer. He almost quit drinking. They all doubted it was real.

Joe declared in disgust, “It’s a con job.”

Ron said, “I agree in principle, but they don’t ask for money or anything, that I’ve read. What do they get out of it?”

“Publicity,” someone else stated. “Venture capital,” suggested another. “Start up money.”

Man, did he want to call someone and tell them about it. Conversations were imagined. “Look, I did it, I’ve been selected. I have it, yeah, option three.” But he knew what would happen. In theory.

He ate lunch and dawdled, talking himself into doing it, examining the rings and shiny marble, never holding all at the same time, afraid of what might happen if he did.

Finally, two and a half hours after opening the envelope, he sat down in his living room recliner and followed the instructions. Disbelieving that anything would happen, he closed his eyes. The marble burned like a hot coal in his hand. Flinching, his eyes involuntarily fluttered open as his ears popped.

He, Keith, Sara, and Ron questioned how something like option three might work. Was it more than time travel? Had to be, Sara argued. If you went back to do something, would you still be in the same location where you started? Like, his house wasn’t built until 1999. Before that, it was a horse pasture.

Now he had the answer.