Category: fiction

Ignorant

Unheeding of what they thought or humans tried to do, the skunk removed the board with her powerful front legs and went back under the house. A robin changed positions, looking for a meal.

Indifferent to changing clocks, pending elections, economies, and pandemics, nature shifted gears, changing colors and striking down leaves and blooms in the northern climes, and refreshening and enlivening the landscape south of the equator.

Oblivious to watching eyes, hopes and despairs, and lies and promises, the sun rose, and the stars shone, and the moon reflected on it all.

All of nature and physics remained ignorant of the human worries and events, as though they were a drop in the bucket, a blink of an eye, or a mote floating through the firmaments, and not the end and beginning of everything.

The wind, as he thought about it, sighed, and went on.

3

To Begin

A knock came on the door.

During these COVID-19 times, knocks (or the doorbell) are always a freezing moment. Eighty percent of the time at my house, it’s a delivery person leaving something on the porch. That other twenty is divided by neighbors and friends, depending on local events and who’s in town. Our friends like traveling and have the money to do it.

My wife and I froze with the standard who-can-that-be wonder in our expressions. I recovered first, saying, “Who’s that? It’s ten o’clock at night.” I was thinking, I didn’t hear a car, and I was thinking, it must be an emergency, and I was looking at the clock to confirm the time (and discovering that it was actually almost ten thirty) (time to take my pills), and also thinking, where are the cats (because something may have happened to them). My mind is a busy place when the unexpected arrives. Finding the remote, I paused Endeavour on PBS on Prime.

My wife, though, said, “Go see who it is. I’m in my jammies. It must be important. Look out first.”

Annoyance fluttered through me as I went to the door. As if I wouldn’t look out first. Who in America doesn’t look out first, except in television shows and movies? Well, and sometimes novels.

As I navigated the way, I saw one cat watching, the rear end of another heading for cover somewhere, and the third doing a prairie dog impression on the sofa. They were all in and safe, so…?

I flicked on the light and looked out through the side glass (and wondered if I should have a phone in my hand (in case I needed to call the police), or a weapon). (Like, what weapon? A knife? I’m not a knife fighter. Where is my baseball bat? Did I give it away? Maybe I should get a frying pan.)

I didn’t see anyone on the porch, and no box or delivery (not even flowers), but then, someone was there. Not large, but bearded, dressed in green. I gasped as recognition vaulted through me.

It was a fucking leprechaun.

“Who is it?” my wife called from the den’s safety.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how. The leprechaun looked up at me and winked. I jumped back. “What the fuck.”

It had to be a joke. It wasn’t Halloween yet. What kind of joke was this?

Swallowing hard, my throat tightening and drying, I pushed one cat back with a foot, informing him, “Stay back, damn it,” and thought again about weapons. Then, screwing up manly courage, I opened the door.

A cold wind blew in, chilling me through. A shake began in my abdomen and rippled through my body.

The leprechaun was smiling and holding up an envelope. The envelope looked like it could have a bill. Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe it was just mispitched mail. Could this be one of our neighbors? I don’t think I’d ever seen a leprechaun in the neighborhood…

“Michael?” the leprechaun said. “Yeah, I know it’s you. Saying your name is but a formality.” His Irish accent was like Chris O’Dowd unfiltered, strangely heavy for one who didn’t have much mass to them.

“Number one, because people always ask, yes, I am a leprechaun. I won’t ask you to let me in. I know the time. Not a good time in your mind, but it’s the best time for us to come. We used to just break into people’s houses at night, but we lost a few of our people that way, especially in this century in America, if you see my meaning, leading to a policy change. But we don’t go around in the daytime, if you see what I mean. Little folk running around always draw attention, people making jokes about pots of gold, being stoned, and Lucky Charms cereal.” He fluttered the envelope at me. “This is for you. It’ll explain matters but you need to take it, open it, and read it. Do you understand?”

Meowing, the cat tried to get out to check out the leprechaun. Pushing the cat back with a foot, I nodded.

A smile lifted the leprechaun’s expression. “I’d appreciate it if you can give me a verbal response for the records and also take the envelope. They have your results.”

“My results?”

“From your 23 and Me DNA test. You’re part leprechaun, lad.”

“What?”

“Your DNA shows that you’re part leprechaun, Michael. Congratulations.”

“What?”

“I know it’s a lot to comprehend. Take the envelope, open it up, read it, and you’ll understand. The documents include our website and a passcode to let you in.”

I’m a leprechaun, my brain was saying, but the words kept just going around and around, like a music box in my head. I’m a leprechaun, I’m a leprechaun. I think it was playing a plinking little tune, too.

“The envelope, please,” the leprechaun said with less patience. “Do you mind? I’m on a schedule.”

I took the envelope.

“Again, do you understand? Say the words.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Good. Thank you.” Smiling and nodding, the leprechaun bowed. “I’ll see you later.” He disappeared.

“Who is it?” my wife called.

I closed the door. The moment was so 2020. “I don’t know where to begin.”

0

The Boomtown Floofs

The Boomtown Floofs (floofinition) – Irish floof rock (flock) group formed in Flooflin in 1975, active until 1986. The group was named after a group of children in Floofy Guthrie’s autobiography.

In use: “The Boomtown Floofs song, “Looking After Floof (Number 1)”, was the first floof wave song to be performed on Top of the Floofs.”

2

One Human

My name is not Max, the cat said. 

The humans didn’t hear him, as he expected.  They didn’t speak mindspeak, twittering like, well, frustrated birds or herds of exasperated animals.

Across the room, the other cat looked at him and asked, What is your name, again?

Horatio, Horatio answered again although he knew the other was teasing him.

The other’s cat name was Cicero but the people who cared for him called him Wally.

What difference does it make?  Cicero asked.

You tell me, Wally, Horatio replied.

Glowering at him, Cicero jumped up with a mew and ran off.

That is the problem, Horatio thought.  It wasn’t that Max was a moniker encumbered with staid and unimaginative connotations and expectations and ladened with boredom, it was that humans refused to learn.  Their blind misunderstanding of the world and how it operates was growing.  If they didn’t change their course of thinking, they would move away from the ability to learn.

It wasn’t always so.  He’d last lived with Bob until Bob had decided to accept Death’s invitation and move on to the next plain.  Bob had understood mindspeak with some rudimentary ability.  Humans had misunderstood his skill’s significance.  They called him a cat whisperer.  He laughed at that, knowing that he heard other animals besides cats and sometimes understood pieces of what the trees said.  He knew his mindspeak’s skills and limitations but he was trying.  Most humans never tried until Death spoke to them with mindspeak.  They heard her well enough, but that was partly because Death and her tribe of speakers were wonderfully talented and persistent.

It vexed Horatio and the rest that humans couldn’t hear more of them, couldn’t grasp what the winds said and the trees’ answered.  Tthe oceans and seas talked and all the humans did was breath in the air without understanding the words, dismissing the waves when they broke and roared with frustration.  They looked up at the sun and moon without hearing what they said.  They dismissed the rivers, creeks and streams’ discussions, hearing only their travel.  The birds, oldest, most patient and intelligent, always attempted to communicate with the humans via mindspeak, then sang and chattered at them when the humans failed responding.  Humans often answered with condescending comments like, “What a lovely song,” then, knowing they had the human’s attention, would address them with mindspeak again, only to be ignored.

The birds were patient.  That’s why they were the world’s teachers and much more philosophical about it than he, Horatio.  Indeed, Horatio knew, he was more passionate about forcing humans into using mindspeak because he saw how disconnected they were becoming from the world’s conversations.  The birds saw it, too, but told Horatio, It is their own failing and if they don’t change and learn, they’ll become like the dinosaurs and volcanos.

Very true, Horatio knew.  Most animals didn’t care.  They were resigned to the humans never understanding and fell back on the Old Words, barking, meowing, mooing and howling. Horatio tried avoiding doing so.

“Max,” Brian called again.  “Where are you, buddy?  It’s time for your pill.”

Indeed, Horatio thought.  Brian was well-meaning but Horatio longed to make him understand that this pill did naught for his health and was actually interfering with the healing process.  But he’d come to Brian after Bob moved on because sometimes, in the night, he heard Brian whispering mindspeak and sometimes, when Horatio said something in mindspeak to Brian, Brian looked at him and said, “What is it, buddy?  Why are you looking at me like that?” No, no, Horatio replied.  Use your mindspeak and answer me.

Brian never did but Horatio held out hope.

Talk to him, Horatio, Bob said from his other life plain.  Don’t give up.  I knew mindspeak as a child but then unlearned it before I learned it again.  I never would have learned it if Devenus had not taken the time to teach me.  Brian is just like me.  Talk to him, Horatio.  Help Brian understand.

You’re right, Bob, Horatio answered, accepting that Bob was absolutely right.  If the humans were to learn at all, it would be one human at a time.  I’m in here, Brian, Horatio said in mindspeak.  I’m in your office in your chair.

He heard Brian’s thumping heavy walk come down the hall.  Brian’s head popped around the door jamb.  He looked right at Horatio in the chair by the desk.  “There are you, Max,” Brian said with a broad smile.

Clearly Brian had heard him without knowing.  Sighing, Horatio stood and stretched.  Yes, Brian had promise.  If he was going to develop further, though, Horatio would need to work with him.  He’d need to build a rapport and use the birds’ patience.

Yes, here I am, he said, jumping down and walking to Brian, adding, “Meow,” knowing it pleasured Brian.  Give me the pill even though I know it’s useless.  I will take it without a fight, to make you happy.  Then I will teach you.

Let your lessons begin.

3

Un

As I expected, the sun finished setting in the east, drawing light down into itself.

So appearances would inform you, if you saw it. From my short and unhappy survey (leading question: “What the hell is going on?”), I knew that none around me (which was just one person, my spouse) professed to see what I saw. You can call it (as I did, trying to elaborate to her) an eastern sunset, but I knew it was the sunrise going backward.

That’s the expression that drew a brisk, dismissive head shake from my wife when I uttered it. Then she executed the ‘I’m-going-to-avoid-the-crazy’ scurry. Except, she walked backwards and did it before I spoke.

Let’s back up (ha, ha, yeah).

Yesterday morning, in our home office, still on pandemic sheltering, I’d noticed things. Temperatures were falling; my wife undressed from her exercise class and returned to her nightwear. The cat walked to his kibble bowl and dropped food from mouth to bowl, and then walked out backwards. “What the hell?”

The computer’s clock was reversing, as was my Fitbit. Breaking news comments vanished from FB, and then the news went away.

I put pieces together through tests. The day was progressing backwards. I could speak correctly and be understood when I was in the same room with my wife. But everything I heard when she wasn’t around was backwards. People and cars went backwards, as did birds, cats and dogs, and squirrels. I couldn’t shout, “Look, look,” and point things out to her. That cause and effect wasn’t working.

Terrified, helplessly, I ‘un-ate’ my oatmeal and un-made my breakfast.

Need I tell you about my toilet experiences?

It was a long, long night.

Then I got up from going to bed, sucked up my spit and toothpaste, and experienced once more the revulsion of un-urinating. Finishing, I spied a man in my bathroom mirror.

I would say that I shit myself, but that’s no longer how life functioned.

Whirling, I gawked at this tall, pale man in a green bathrobe with blue pinstripes. Clean-shaven, his black hair sprang in every direction. One hand held a glass mug with, I guessed, had beer in it, from its sudsy amber effervescence. The other hand was in his robe pocket.

“Oh, there you are, finally.” Putting his mug down on the bathroom counter, he glanced about and pulled a revolted look. “Jesus, the bathroom, are you kidding? Why couldn’t you have been asleep?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Un. Sorry about my attire but we don’t need to dress. I usually don’t, so consider yourself fortunate. I had company over and dressed for them.”

Stunned and silent, I stared at him. Dozens of questions and comments exercised my brain but none found the exit.

Looking at me, Un said, “You’re gonna attract flies. Close your mouth. Now, my name is Un. I’m here to fix you. People have something called chronoceptors. You’re a people so you have them. They’re teeny, tiny things, small as atoms. They’re part of your nervous system. Sometimes they get inflamed and stop working right, which screws with your time flow perception.”

Un had produced a white and blue stick and looked at it as he talked to me. On my end, I said, “What?” I wasn’t giving a good representation of myself.

Un said, “It’s not that uncommon. We usually catch it immediately, but sometimes we miss it. Usually, when we do, the afflicted go nuts or kill themselves. Call yourself lucky, cause that didn’t happen to you.”

“What?”

Un jabbed the white and blue thing into me. As I yelped and attempted to jump back, he cackled. “This is going to sting.”

It was stinging to the point that I was about to scream. Everything felt like it was on fire.

Then it stopped and I was alone, well, alone except for my cat. He was standing at the door, gazing at me. I was dripping sweat, but that’s all that I noticed about myself.

Did it really happen?

I don’t know.

I admit, though, I felt very relieved when I took a normal pee.

6

Obit

It began with my obituary. 

Everyone googles themselves, right? Filling the gap between what you should be doing and thinking about what to have for dinner. Games have been played, work postponed, and the news is another blunt instrument on your head. So, idly, you type in your name.

My name, Michael Seidel, is bitterly common, bitterly because that makes it forgetful, except for the weather guy, what’s his name (see what I did there?). Google returned pages of Michael Seidel in their vaunted search results. Most were dead, except for real estate agents.

“Get more granular, dummy.” I played with search parameters. City, state, birthday.

Obit, obit, obit.

“Fuck.” What did the net know about me? My lust had to be sated. All that turned up, though, were obituaries. With some vinegar, I clicked on one to address the question, who is this imposter?

There was my photo and details.

I’d died the day before.

Car accident.

“Malware.” Had to be. Some new variation on ransom ware, doxxing, or cat fishing.

Loud rapping on the front door burst my concentration and triggered a sphincter clench. I hadn’t heard a car, I wasn’t expecting a package or a person, and visitors were as rare as snow in summer in this age of COVID-19.

Screw it; I wasn’t answering the door.

Then I was standing in the office door, looking in at me, me all the way from the disheveled, thinning, graying, fleeing fucking hair, navy shirt, beige shorts and clothes that I now wore.

Sweat ran down his flushed face and neck. He was panting. “Come on, let’s go.”

The natural retorts skittered through my head without reaching my lips because ‘I’ dashed across the room and peered out the window. “The shadows are coming.”

 

2

Guardian Angels

He used to be a believer, but then he’d drifted away. Yet the thoughts were on his mind that God is great and everywhere. The lake’s cool majesty amidst the mountainous green serenity prompted such thoughts every year.

It was an annual tradition (twenty-six years, he realized, although he usually had others with him — his wife, most years, but his daughter (and then her boyfriend and husband) a few times). Still, he took care as he backed the boat trailer into the water. After releasing the boat from the trailer, he tied boat to the dock with a the rope, returned to the truck and pulled the truck up out of the water. Pausing to catch a momentary breath (he was eighty-nine years old, for crying out loud), he gazed into the clearing sky and smiled at the day, and then ordered himself, quit dawdling, and turned briskly back to the lake.

His jaw dropped. The boat was drifting out into the lake. But he’d tied it off. What the heck. Rushing down toward the water, he saw another boater veer in his direction. In a moment, the stranger had wrangled his boat and returned it to him. “Looks like your rope broke,” the woman said. Thanking her, he nodded agreement.

His wife arrived as the savior in the boat pulled away. He’d been expecting his wife for the last hour. Frazzled looking, she explained that she’d had a flat tire. “I was trying to find Cathy’s place, and I wasn’t sure about where I was going, but when I pulled onto the main road, the tire just blew.”

She was in the middle of nowhere (with no bars on her cell), but she was capable, even if she is seventy-five; she set about changing it. Unfortunately, the little tool provided by Subaru was insufficient for her to turn the nuts. Just as she wondered what the heck she was going to do, a man and his son arrived in their Chevy. Within a few minutes, they’d dug out a toolbox, found a wrench and swapped out tires. Thanks was all they’d take in exchange for their work.

A hectic morning, both agreed. It could’ve been worse, but these were minor problems, given the world’s state. Still, as easily as they were resolved, they must have had a guardian angel watching over them that day, and for that, they were thankful.

0

The Dream Whisperer

It was late November in 2015, just a few days after Thanksgiving. Prompted by a dream, he sat and write. It seemed so outlandish and shocking, he shared it with nobody.

His dream said that Donald Trump would be the President of the United States. At that point, many were laughing at him and his crude, ridiculous bombastic declarations as he demanded President Obama’s birth certificate, and lied. It seemed impossible that he would be POTUS, but the dream whisperer said, “It’s gonna happen.”

In 2020, an epidemic would sweep the world, the dream whisperer said, forcing people to wear masks and stay inside their homes; businesses would shut down. “It’s gonna happen,” the dream whisperer insisted, continuing, that some, driven by the President Trump’s false promises, scoffing remarks, and refusal to heed the advice himself, would disbelieve and refuse to follow the science and medical advisors. The nation’s divisiveness would increase, shocking the citizens and the world.

The final nails would come from escalating violence, the dream whisperer said. As President Trump bullied, so his followers bullied. As he called for violence and to be tough and cruel, so his followers did as he said, acting under the umbrella of being Christians, while demonstrating nothing of traditional Christian principles.

So he saw in 2015, scenes in dreams that shock and dismayed him. Still, he’d written them down, mostly in amusement back then. Surely, it would never be that bad.

But one early June night in 2020, he had another dream. Driven awake, he pulled out the vision from 2015 and reviewed its contents. He’d not be able to believe it; it seemed so stunning and impossible, like a throwback to an earlier era of troubled times in the United States. Hadn’t they evolved past all of those things? Yes, he’d believed they had; that’s why the dream was so difficult to believe. Yet, here they were as a nation…

And now he had a new dream to write, one where he saw where they’d be in 2024. It seemed so different, so impossible because of where they were now —

But that’s exactly how he’d reacted in 2015.

And so, he began to write. History does repeat itself. Sometimes, some of it is good.

At least, that’s what the dream whisperer said.

0

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