Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Several friends, Bob and Ellis, were in the coffee shop, sitting at a table a few feet away. Both are regulars. Bob comes in and does the Times crossword puzzle every day.
He shouted to Ellis, “I can’t get this clue. Can you help? It says, James Coburn film, In Like. I don’t know what it is. Do you know?”
“What is it?” Ellis shouted back.
Bob shouted his request again.
Sitting nearby, Michael shouted, “In Like Flint, Bob.”
Ellis said, “Let me think.”
Michael shouted, “In Like Flint.”
Bob and Ellis looked at Michael. “What’s that?” Bob asked.
“In Like Flint.”
“Flynn fits.” Bob looked at Ellis. “You ever hear of that?”
“It seems familiar,” Ellis replied.
Bob beamed at Michael. “It fits. Thanks, Michael.”
“You’re welcome,” Michael answered. “Sometimes it takes a community.”
It’s a beautiful December morning outside the window. Snow graces the ground and plants. Clouds promise more clouds. 32 F out there but a comfy 68 in here, thanks to the heating industry. All that would be great, but this is March 26, 2023, and we’re beginning another week of spring. Someone pass the message on to the weather deities, please.
Although the Mt. Ashland ski resort is pleased, the rest of us are more perplexed than happy. Snow was not in our end of March plans. Leading the list of the dissatisfied are the cats. The in/out game is in play each morning and afternoon. Fortunately, yesterday, after the morning’s snow, sunshine bulled through the cloud cover, delivered us from the snow, and shared some shine, pushing temps to the mid-forties. The weather conductors tell us the same will be the case today. Despite the wintry scene, we will have over twelve hours of daylight, and that’s a good thing.
Today, I have “Metal Guru” by T. Rex from 1972 bubbling in the morning mental music stream. I first heard it on some late-night music show on AM radio while driving my 1965 Mercury Comet home from my girlfriend’s house. The car was a hand-me-down from the period’s stepmother, a forest-green sedan with a solid 289 V8. My girlfriend lived out in the country on twenty-some acres with no neighbors within shouting range. I lived back in a small town, Daniels, 10 miles away, about twenty minutes by the Comet late at night. I found the lyrics and its nuances mesmerizing and picked them up, singing to my girlfriend. She didn’t know what the hell I was going on about but she was used to that. I was considered a bit out there. Despite that, she married me, and we’re still together, a half century later.
I haven’t thought of this song in years. Nor have I heard it. The Neurons dusted it off after the cats and I were talking about their breakfast preferences. For some reason, The Neurons thought this intersection of action and conversation should be noted with the lyrics, “Metal guru, is it you?” Except I was singing, “Little kitty cat, is it you?” Then the rest flowed in and I realized, oh, yeah. T. Rex.
Ah, sunshine is exploding in through the eastern windows. Looks like spring is returning. Winter is melting away…again. Stay positive. Hope you have a lovely day underway whatever you’re doing out your way. I’ve just kickstarted my heart with some coffee. Breakfast awaits. Here’s the tune.
Cheers
He and his wife have a friend, Heather, a fake name for this tale. Heather is an actor. Heather’s best friend in New York, where she lives, is also an actor. Heather’s friend is a regular on a TV show he and his wife enjoy watching. Whenever Heather’s friend comes on for the first time on the show, one of them will say, “There’s Heather’s friend.”
It’s the blurt. This is the fun part of a new writing effort, when imagination spins up and the story rolls out like it’s on a fast-moving conveyor belt. Questions are asked about who and why, but answers are filled in fast. The story unwinds, teaching him what’s going on, and he spills it onto the page, connecting new dots, splicing in realized bits of stuffing about who these people are, why they’re together, their objectives and problems, their story.
He really doesn’t know where it’s going but that doesn’t matter. He’s writing, and it’s going somewhere. He’ll need to sweat some details later.
That’s later. Just enjoy the trip. Drink coffee and enjoy the trip.
Morning salutations. It’s Saturday, March 25, 2023. Tucker used a querulous old man filter on his morning meow, forcing me up earlier than wanted. You know how persistence a querulous old man can be? Tucker has learned it. Anyway, the blinds were pulled up and there it was, two inches of snow. Well, they’d warned us. Snow was still falling. At 33 F, it’s not the thick stuff, but a wet slush piling up. Piling up is too dramatic; it’s just edging up. Supposed to reach 44 today, the weather masters say. So snow will stop and rain will commence. The temp will crash back into the high twenties tonight, and snow will commence again.
Sunrise was at 7:05. I can’t swear to that, because, clouds and snow. It’s just one big white slouchy pillow up there, draped down over the mountains. Pretty yesterday after the snow because we had a dramatic scene to the northeast, blackening clouds plopped on top of unkempt white and gray clouds, crashing an the snowy mountains all the way down to the snowline, where it went solid green. That’s all gone today.
About this snow, though, it graciously doesn’t stay on the pavement and asphalt, so those are clear of snow but wet. So, we’re muttering abut the snow because this is spring, thanks, and, like white shoes, snow is supposed to have its season. But we’re are pleased that driving is not impacted…much. The snow adds to the bank and we’ll need that this summer. Probably. I’m guessing.
The cats saw the snow, felt the cold, ate, and announced, “Screw this,” and went back to sleep.
Shelters are open for the homeless but it’s not a clean scene. Hot meals are served twice a day for them but at another location as the shelters are basically churches and the library. Some homeless are camping in the parks. I’m fine with it in principle but locals around those areas complain about the smells that end up arising because of people using alleys and areas around the parks as latrines. That also makes it a health hazard.
The Neurons’ music choice came out of a memory track. The track began by generally walking and thinking. Somehow, Cream and “Badge” emerged from sleeping in the gray vaults to play in my head. After they played, I recalled that a female group had once come out with their version of “Badge”. The Neurons were sent to excavate the name. Eventually it came back, Fanny. I’d mentioned Fanny to several people through the years but nobody ever knew them. My mind questioned whether they existed in this reality or it was something I’d made up. Perhaps, gentle suggestions were made, I had the name wrong. All possible.
But with the net, I looked up Fanny this morning and confirmed they were real. Then I found some terrific videos someone had made of them. Time was spent listening to them, enjoying the sound. I played “Badge” but also several other videos, including, “Hey Bulldog”. I always enjoyed it, so here it is.
Already had coffee. Soon as I saw the snow, mind ordered it now, hot and black. Stay pos and take the day. Here’s Fanny – hope you enjoy them. Cheers
Three dreams recalled from last night.
Bottle of whiskey.
The stone-lined path.
Wanted.
Bottle of whiskey. I was with dreams friends — folks known in a dream but not in RL. My dream wife was with me, and we were visiting in one of their homes. It was the collection point, for we were going out to dinner and then have some drinks and fun somewhere. It was a small group, just six or seven people, and the place where we met was a tidy but small, modern apartment.
We were sitting around a table with a white cloth covering it. The host entered. Opening a package, he said, “I got this in the mail today. It’s a prize I won.” He unboxed a crystal bottle of whiskey.
All were impressed. He poured his each a tumbler of his prize for us to sample. I drank mine and thought was amazing. So smooth, and slightly sweet. He offered more, which I accepted. Then, time to go. We walked down to a restaurant with my buddy taking his prize whiskey along. When he reached the restaurant, he poured other fluid into his whiskey bottle, appalling me. I wanted no more after that. Then, the, the bottle changed, with the bottle’s bottom growing rounder, until it would no longer stand upright, but tipped over. After the bottle was straightened three times, it fell over and broke.
The end.
The stone-lined path. I was out with my father, who was with others. I saw him and decided I wanted to avoid him. I could do this because we were outside, under an Interstate bridge. Huge pylons were holding it up. I kept hiding behind them.
Dad was busy doing something. Curiosity bettering me, I craned out to see. He had made a three-foot wide path in the dirt. Now he was lining it with rocks which he found. Seeing me, he called out, “Come help me, Michael. You’ll be good at this.” I went and began helping him lay the stones. While I was doing that, he took me and held me close to him. I felt embarrassed. He said, “I know that you avoid me but I want you to know how much I love you and how proud you make me feel.”
Dream end.
Wanted.
My wife and I were living in a small and cluttered apartment. We delivered a disagreement about how things should be arranged, so I said, I’m going to live in another place.
I left and went down a broad staircase, looking for another place. Women began approaching me, appealing to me to have sex. Some became very aggressive, shoving themselves against me, grabbing me, or passionately trying to kiss me. I kept telling them, “No, this is not going to happen.” They would give up and others would show up.
I went back up to my apartment with my wife. She was happily going about, doing something, dressed in her sweat clothes. I remained irritated with her and asked why she was acting as she was. She didn’t answer, so I left in exasperation. Another woman, in a white sundress with auburn curls highlighted blonde, told me that she wanted to take my clothes off and suggested with go back to her place. I told her, “No. Just leave me alone.”
Dream end
She said, “Where are my car keys?”
It’s a funny question these days. One car just has an electronic fob, a key contained within it for emergencies. Just one key, though. Her car, older, also has one key, with a fob. The house keys are separate — two, one for the house, and one for the mailbox — on a separate ring. They use garage door openers so she considers the house keys as superfluous and doesn’t take them.
He asked, “Why do you use the plural?” He knew why. He was just causing trouble.
She knew. “I don’t have time for you now. I’m already late. Help me find my keys.”
He went to her purse, opened it, and pulled out her key. “This it?”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Your purse.”
“I already checked it. Well, thanks, got to go.” She took the key and pecked his cheek. “Love you, bye.”
She was out and gone. He sniffed once. “Well, it is just one key, not keys.”
The cat looked at him and yawned.
He was doing nothing. By that, he meant that he was playing a computer game. The television was on. Picard. A cat slept on the desk to his right.
His wife was in the recliner to his left, on her computer, playing a game, too, but also voicing disapproval about the television show’s plot.
Suddenly, they were there, more substantial than ghosts, surrounding him. Two seated their asses on the desk on either side of his laptop.
He looked at them. They crossed their arms and smiled. “What’s this about you’re not going to write for a few days?” one said, classic New York accent.
His muses. He wasn’t surprised. “I thought I’d take a few days off.”
The muses laughed. “Why? Stories are waiting. You’re eager to write them.”
“I’m a little tired.”
All laughed again. “Aw, he’s tired,” one behind him said in mocking sympathy.
“So?” the muse on the right asked.
“That’s okay,” another muse said behind him. “Let him go. If he doesn’t want to write, that’s his choice.”
He nodded. “That’s right. Just for few days. My eyes are tired. I feel like I need a break, you know?”
Muses leaned in. They began whispering scenes. He paused his game and watched television.
Or tried. Eager and resigned, he opened a new file.
He’d just write a little. See where it went.
The muses nodded. “That’s the spirit.”
Was it too late for coffee?
Michael Seidel, writer 