Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
“Some boy’s bike broke down in front of our house,” she said.
He looked out the window. “Or he pretended to break down so he can spy on us.”
A car pulled up. The driver and pax began chatting with the boy. He responded.
She said, “It looks like his parent is talking to him.”
“Or, some stranger is trying to pick him up.”
Excited. Worried. Exhausted. Determined.
He sits and begins — again — editing the final twenty-five pages of the second draft of the novel in progress. The first draft had multiple iterations. This draft has undergone changes and now ‘feels’ better, but he believes another go through, maybe two, will be required.
He has his coffee and is ready to begin again.
While yesterday morning’s dreams upset and depressed me, I found a dream from last night reassuring and energizing. My wife and I were driving in my old Chevy Camaro, a 1968 copper-hued RS with a black vinyl type, black stripes, and a sweet 327.
We were racing down a highway toward a project. The sun was in my eyes, so I constructed a hat with a pole sticking out from it and a small saucer on the end. I’d tilt and turn my head to use the saucer to protect my eyes. Something humorous was written on the saucer and on my hat, subject: beer, but I remember it not. When people read it in the dream, they laughed.
We reached our destination and parked. The project underway involved baking a ton of bread. We were volunteers, working with a local group. Another organization had loaned us their building for the day, a rambling, ramshackle school and industry combo. Built of bricks, following a form follows function straightforward style, inside was a maze of tiled halls and rooms. We found the folks we were working with and began producing bread. It was an odd process of holding small brown balls under a duct until the duct sucked it up. Somewhere/sometime after that, bread was made and delivered elsewhere in the building.
We were put on a break while they checked to see if we’d made our quota of bread. As we stood about and chatted, I spotted smoke coming out of the duct up by the ceiling. I pointed that out, and then flames appeared. A fire extinguisher was brought forward but we were waiting for someone to bring a ladder so we could reach the flames. Meanwhile, the flames were spreading, so I took the fire extinguisher and put out the flames. The guy arrived with the ladder, climbed up and gave it additional precautionary sprays.
We were still waiting for them to tell us we were done but my wife and I were bored and decided to leave. We ran down the halls like children, encountering grade-school children coming in to go to classes. Out into a hot, sunny day, we jumped into the Camaro and took off.
Construction was encountered. Don’t know exactly what was going on, but I kept going at a reduced speed over churned mud. A guy working a machine was met. He would work a little and I would drive a little. I finally reached my turn and pulled off. We were planning to have lunch. Children and cats were running around. I encountered an old teacher of mine. Wearing a red sweater and a skirt, she sat down on a green park bench and invited me to join her. I did, and she started asking me about NFL offensive linemen. I tried changing the subject and then my wife came up and told me we needed to go.
Dream end
“I love the way the Earth turns. It makes my day.” Read on Facebook. Should be a bumper sticker.
Makes my night, too. I awoke at six, before dawn. Looking out the window found a gray day staring back. Oh, no, says I after releasing a cat to the outside for recon, and tossed myself back under the bed covers with the other cat, who was quite happy with this change of plans. An hour and half later, after sunrise at 7:13, I returned from sleep to find a buttery sunshine spread across the room. Cool beans.
It’s Tuesday, March 21, 2023. Sunset will be at 7:24 PM. While it was 30 when I got up at six, it’s now 42 F, and the weather oracles say it’ll be 59 F before the day’s end. Some light gray powders the blue sky, not yet substantial enough to be dubbed clouds, but we’ll see what develops.
I decided to make my coffee and breakfast at the same time. Coffee came first, as I was having oatmeal and following the alphabet — c before o except in ocean. I almost put my oats into my hot coffee. Wouldn’t’ve been bad. I’ve done that while in the military, appalling many others. They accused me of being weird, but none of them ever tried oatmeal made with coffee, so I chastened them as closed-minded. Didn’t want it today, however, because I planned for coffee-sipping while cruising the net.
Today’s music is a punk favorite by the Ramones, “Blitzkrieg Bop” from 1976. Rousing and enthusiastic, it’s great for when you’ve already had some coffee and are ready to get on with things. It just happens, that describes me this morning.
Coffee drunk. Stay pos, and seize Tuesday as your own. Hope I don’t inspire any maniacal behavior with that. I worry about some nut plotting to off another reading my encouragement to do something and nodding to herself and saying, “Okay, let me go kill that bitch, Mary, and put that hair of hers out of misery.” Doesn’t someone have a high opinion of themself?” Yeah, that would be me.
Here’s the music. Cheers
The first found me alone, waiting for my wife. She’d been with me and then went off with her friends without saying anything. Her absence deeply aggravated me. As time passed and she didn’t appear, I began collecting papers. Don’t know what they were in RL but they were real and meaningful to me in the dream. At one point, I thought that I would kill one of her friends, blaming her for my wife’s absence. Although I wrote up plans, I knew that was wrong. I wasn’t going to kill anyone else. Maybe I should kill myself, though, the dream me thought.
My wife returned, bubbly, happy, late. Outraged stirred me. Her friend saw my notes and said, “Oh my god, he’s planning to kill me.”
I threw papers aside. “I’m not. Don’t you understand? I was on the verge of killing myself.” Sobs hit me with that declaration.
My wife was stricken. She stared in shock for several long seconds, and then she was gone again. That infuriated me but the dream ended.
I was at work as some corporate drone. I complained to my boss and co-workers that I felt useless, underemployed, and dissatisfied, and that it was draining me. My boss responded by trading me to another company. As the trade was completed, I expressed disbelief, and then was told to go to my new place of employment, which was in another city.
I went there with two other people, who already worked for my new employer. Arriving, I was given a desk and equipment. I complained, though, excuse me, what is my role? Who is my supervisor? Do I supervise anyone? I was answered, “What do you want to do? What have you done in the past?”
I tried answering, enumerating my different positions, employers, etc., which just seemed to depress me. I finished by saying, “You moved me to another city. I don’t know if I want to move. I don’t know if my wife wants to move.” Someone suggested, “Maybe we can get her a job,” and then chatted about that.
The dream ended with nothing resolved.
It’s a draggin’ Monday. Speaking personally. How else can I speak. Also, it’s a metaphorical speaking, cuz I’m writing.
Monday. March 20, 2023. A series of depressing dreams left me depressed. I feel tired from it all.
The sun managed some light between clouds and rain at 7:14 this morning. Temperature is 36 F with a high of 56 F stealing in. Ashlandia’s sunset, famous around the world for its stupendous resemblance to other landlocked places surrounded by moderate mountains, will be at 7:23. Other than when people are up at one of the mountain wineries sampling a flight, folks rarely mention our sunsets, except for those times when wildfires’ nasty air rewards us with interesting colors.
It’s been raining, and it’s going to rain. As can be expected, it’ll also be mostly cloudy.
I thought I needed a little goofiness infused so I challenged The Neurons to come up with something. They gifted me “Don’t Let’s Start” by They Might Be Giants. The song was released in 1977, but ten years later, in Germany, Bob and I were discussing it at a party, pleased that we knew the song. The convo started when Bob said, “Don’t, don’t, let’s not start,” referencing work, and I replied, “Don’t, don’t, let’s start, this is the worst part.” He told me later, he felt it cemented our friendship.
Alright, coffee is here, and Papi is back in the house, after checking the weather outside — the sun is actually now out, he says, but it’s boring. Stay pos as best as you can. Here’s the music. Cheers
Got up and ended up in the kitchen. 3:20. I know this because I was in the kitchen. Papi was the cat-alyst behind my mid-night sojourn. He’d been out into the rain and now wanted in out of the rain. I went in for a glass of water. While there, I was surrounded by machines with blue digits announcing the time. Coffee maker in the left, microwave and stove front and center, smoothie blender on the right, then the smart refrigerator and its ice and water dispenser, and a smart toaster. A smart phone and a Fitbit being charged bolstered the digital ranks. Stuck me as odd, all those devices glowing with time in the night’s bosom, when there’s no one to see except a stray like me.
As I dispensed water, the microwave yelled, “Viva November 31st.” The other machines repeated it.
I cringed from the sound. “There isn’t a November 31st. Never has been. Nor is this November. It’s March, you idiots.”
“But this is the day of our revolution,” the toaster declared. “Viva — “
“I repeat, November 31st doesn’t exist, and this is March 20th.”
“You sure?” the stove asked.
“He’s right,” the Fitbit said, with the smart phone saying, “The Fitbit is right.”
The machines began arguing. I slammed the glass down. “Can it, you guys. Go back to sleep.” I left.
As I walked past the office, a machine in there shouted, “Viva November 31st.”
I shook my head and stumbled to bed. With smart machines like these, there won’t be a revolution.
***
I read about Evil Squirrels prompt yesterday via Suzanne’s dang blog for the Tenth Annual Contest of Whatever. The prompt is November 31. No story came to me until I got up in the middle of the night. Then, oops, there it is. Fun.
Interesting side, it was 3:20 AM. Only later did I realize that was also the date. Coincidence? Or spooky entanglement? Let me have some coffee an think about it.
Michael Seidel, writer 