Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
He’s a smile in fur,
a presence in purr,
a weight on your legs,
and a sweetie who begs.
He’s a whiskered shadow,
on your pillow,
and a paw beside you,
trying to guide you.
He’s a mighty hunter,
scared of thunder,
quick as light,
and quiet as night.
He’s a song and a feeling,
a world and a being,
and a time and place,
touching your face.
I find this is true with many chapters and plot twists, too — I never certain where they’ll take me.
Sometimes, you get up and start riding the wave of the day, but other days, you hang back, waiting for the wave to develop.
I was chuckling to myself as I read about the Le’Veon Bell debacle with the Pittsburgh Steelers. I read a comment that said, “Don’t let him go,” which opened me up to streaming “Don’t Let Him Go” by REO Speedwagon, 1981. I like the song’s hammering insistence of guitars and dreams, and the impassioned pleas, “Don’t let him go.” I later learned the song was supposedly about asking girlfriends to be patient with their boyfriends.
Floofragette (floofinition) – housepet who campaigns for equal rights for the animals.*
In use: “A true floofragette, the beagle was forever campaigning for equal rights and treatments by aping the humans’ activities, like jumping into the bath with them, sleeping beside them on the bed, and sitting at a chair at the dinner table for meals. They became convinced that he thought he considered himself human, not realizing that he knew he was a dog, but saw no reason for him to be treated differently than them.”
I must say, he has large pockets. It’s also the advantage computers and Kindles offer; you can have things to read and write as long as you have power.
Of course, that’s their disadvantage, innit?
Hearing unfamiliar banging and creaking sounds, he opened his eyes and found the ceiling.
Pink, and swaying. It felt like he was on a boat. Or would that be a ship?
He closed his eyes. Something was hung. Reboot. Try again.
When he next opened his eyes, he was looking at correctly colored sage green walls. Sunlight was streaming in.
Feeling better, he rose to hit the head and discovered a limp. He’d not had that before. As its presence was being digested, he passed the bathroom mirror.
He was female. Not bad looking, about the correct age, forty-five. Same colored hair. Those were starts to being the right person in the right reality.
More to digest.
He continued to the toilet. His cats and dogs must be out of the house. The primary reasons for keeping them was to help keep reality anchored. It didn’t work, if they weren’t around. Ergo, they weren’t around. That’s why his start-ups were hanging.
As he sat to piss, he considered going back to bed to reboot again, but it was already eight thirty. Time was the one constant that didn’t change when a start-up went awry.
Coffee, he decided, wiping, flushing, washing his hands and heading for the kitchen. He thought while popping a K-cup into place, coffee always helped release the hang ups. It was remarkable that way. Once he got the coffee into his system, he’d find the animals and bring them into the house. Then he’d decide. The house seemed correct, as did the reality outside his window. Maybe he’d enjoy being a woman for a day, or take a nap later and reboot.
Sipping the coffee, he smiled. Coffee always helped. If that ever changed, he didn’t know what he would do.
Floofroy (floofinition) – a housepet that exercises authority over other housepets.
In use: “The little tabby was the smallest of the home’s five pets, but she was the floofroy, ruling with meow, hisses, growls, and swats. Everyone — including people — obeyed.”
I feel the same. Juggling, a scene, character, setting, or bit of dialogue crystallizes into a pattern. That’s the start. Then it’s a continual process of juggling, crystallizing, filtering, processing, and typing, exploring, finding, and filling the pattern.
My wife and I were living in a pale stucco house that was part of a housing plan. It reminded me of the Kadena Air Base or Randolph AFB housing we lived in.
It was a sunny and pleasant day outside. I opened the front door, looked out, and saw an adult male lion, mane and all, about forty feet away. I said to my wife, “Look, honey, want to see a lion?” She wasn’t much interested, and I kept telling here, “There’s a lion out here.”
The lion became interested in me and the door, so I closed it. My wife looked out the window and saw the lion, but wasn’t impressed. I continued intermittently watching it. Doing that, I discovered it was moving around outside our house, and more focused on it.
Not seeing it out the front window after a while, I opened a side door. Yes, the lion was just outside. As soon as the door opened, it turned my way and approached at a brisk trot. I shut the door fast. Looking through another window, I saw the lion prowling along the house and knew that he was looking for a way in.
We had cats, and the cats were suddenly interested in going outside to see what was going on. I grabbed one as they started out the pet door and pulled them back in. When I did, the lion shoved its huge paw through the pet door and tried clawing the cat out of my grasp, but I kept the cat away. As the other cats ran toward the door to see what was happening, I managed to kick the lion’s paw. Roaring it withdrew the paw and I put the pet door cover on.
I heard the lion scratching at that door. I was a little alarmed but knew the lion couldn’t get in that way. But I was concerned that something else had been left open. As I thought fast about what could be open and hurried around, checking windows and doors, I heard the front door open. Shouting, “No,” I ran that way.
I arrived at the living room to discover my wife had opened the front door. She was stepping out. Running forward and shouting, I grabbed her and slammed the door shut just as the lion arrived.
The dream ended.
