Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Maurice was the new man. Looked like his birth gender might have been different. Or maybe he was just a beautiful man with some exquisite feminine elements. Either way stirred me into intrigue.
He glided us through the identification protocols. I played nice. The others punish you if you don’t play nice. Outside of this establishment, they’ll pound you until death gives you a smile unless you play nice. Death and I played tonguesies a few times before that lesson found a way through my paywall.
Now to business, Maurice orchestrated a beautiful smile my way. Wonder if all those beaming white chicklets were real and natural. Such aquamarine eyes, too. Wars nicely with the glass-smooth mocha skin. Ah, to be wrinkle free. Like that matters to such as me.
“You have two outstanding attributes which might be available to you, Mickey,” Maurice purred. My mind surfed a mental register of attributes and awaited further info. “Invisibility and timetravel are both possible for you, but only one or the other.”
My mind jumped, flipped, and twirled like Simone Biles. Invisibility is the second-least attribute found in people. Time travel is queen of the rarest. No wonder pretty Maurice was here chatting me up. “Wow,” I said like a hayseed blown in on the wind. “I’d like being them.”
A professionally contrite expression landed on Maurice’s beauty. “I’m afraid that you can only be one or the other.”
“Oh.” I poured sadness into my gaze. “That’s a bummer. I thought it’d be so great to be an invisible timetraveller. Just think of the fun.”
“Yes, the opportunities which present do boggle the mind.”
LOL. Only salespeople talk like that.
Maurice ran me the drawbacks and bennies the program provides with those attributes. I made noises and expressions like I paid extreme attention and contained excited interest. I knew from farm skuttle that every attribute has drawbacks. As Maurice delicately phrased it, “Time travel unfortunately damages the cerebral cortex, amygdala, and hippocampi. Being invisible shreds muscle mass and does nerve damage.” He went on with greater clinical details without graphic explanation about how long it generally takes to do these things to people with those attributes.
My mind had already harvested those details and was racing through previously exercised pros and cons in the two choices, searching for the answer, which attribute will be the Amazon Prime delivering my freedom? My shackled co-inhabitants in the farm all punched in with seasoned reasoning about the attributes and freedom. We did it with all the attributes. Nightly ritual. No matter, as Daisychain always said as the bottom line, “You might think you’ll get out, but they will bring you back.”
Someone always put in the addendum, “Or kill you.”
We always laughed with deathly glee. Like being killed was terrible.
Yes, we were ignorant about how terrible things could be in the Farm. We didn’t know that they protected us from knowing.
So, like others, thinking myself more cunning than our masters, I answered Maurice’s ultimate query with suitably guarded hope, kidding myself that they didn’t see right through it.
“I’ll go for timetravel.”
Because I didn’t know that, yes, there are people who can both timetravel and be invisible.
They were the ones who began the program.
I was soon to meet them.
Twosda, July 8, 2025, has squatted down on us. It’s a cool morning after a quiet night. 75 F now, 95 F later, part of a ‘cooling trend’. We saw 99 at our Ashlandia house yesterday. My wife and I were at to get a few items at its hottest, about 4 PM. Checking the eastern sky, I said, “I think we’re going to get thunderstorms.”
My wife scanned the sky. “No, that doesn’t look like thunderstorms to me.”
A few hours later, the sky darkened. Thunder washed across the sky like an old man clearing his throat and coughing. A few raindrops applauded on the ground. At 7:46 PM, the power went out. An alert telling us about that came at 7:57 PM. They said the power would be back in one and a half hours. They were wrong.
Meanwhile, another emergency text arrived: fire off Pompadour Road. Bottom line of all this, fire crews worked through the night to line and contain the Pompadour Fire, and the electricity came back on a little after 2 AM. I know because things beeped and chirped back to life.
The good part of this is that we updated our power outage equipment last winter and it all proved to work. One purchase was a pair of inexpensive rechargeable light bulbs. Installed over the breakfast bar between the kitchen and dining room, they work great as regular bulbs, giving soft daylight illumination. When the power went out, they were charged and ready to go, giving us needed light at the throw of a switch. Now, with power returned, they’re recharging for the next time they’re needed.
Augmenting those were two simple round little lights. Working off three AA batteries, they’re extremely lightweight but powerful, and were perfect for using to read books. As we both had library books at hand, we picked up our books and lights and read till bed.
BTW, my book was “Hollow Kingdom” by Kira Jane Buxton. Released in 2019, I found this science fiction book about an unfolding human apocalypse, as told by a crow and other birds and animals to be engaging, warm, clever, and moving. I wholly recommend it.
Meantime, we’re talking about the Trump Regime’s heavy-handed military presence at MacAuthur Park in LA.
Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass is condemning federal agents and National Guard troops for descending on a city park on Monday, July 7.
Armored vehicles, mounted officers and armed troops briefly swarmed the city’s MacArthur Park Monday morning before leaving. Bass said 20 children were playing at the park before the troops surged through and shared footage of federal officers running through the park.
According to an X post from the Department of Defense, troops were present at the park to “ensure the safety of federal agents.”
Sorry, I know, writing ‘heavy-handed’ while addressing Trump Regime actions is redundant; everything done by that loathsome, hate-fueled regime is heavy handed. This is especially true when it’s Dog-killer Noem calling the shots. ICE and the military showed up at park, disrupting a children’s day care outing. Now what did that accomplish other than a show of force to intimidate others and blow another wad of Federal funding? Bet some part of the MAGA crowd let out a full-throated cheer but the rest of us simply lowered our expectations of TACO and his chips yet again, just, as they say, you didn’t think they could go lower.
During the power outage, The Neurons plugged a 1983 song by Dio, “Holy Diver”, into the morning mental music stream. “What’s that about?” I inquired of the little gray dude. Shrugging in unison, they chorus-muttered, “I don’t know.” Now tell me, how am I supposed to know why things happen in my mind when The Neurons in charge keep presenting themselves as clueless? And people wonder why I act strange. Well, it’s The Neurons, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s the theme music for Twosda, just to get it out of my friggin’ head.
Right now, I’m fasting. No coffee, water, food, etc., until after my 12:15 ultrasound on my gall bladder. Have the best day you can, okay? I’ll do the same. Cheers
It’s as I feared: future NAZIs developed time travel.
There is evidence:
Yes, they found a sword with a swastika. This isn’t the first time a swastika was found in the past. The cover story is that the swastika meant ‘good fortune’ before Hitler adopted it as his murderous regime’s emblem. I think NAZIs going back in time spread a tale that the swastika meant ‘good fortune’ to trick others into using it. Then the NAZIs held secret meetings to spread their hatred, prejudices, sexism, and racism. In fact, going out on a limb, I’ll wager that in some distant far, far, far, far future, we’ll learn that Adolf Hitler and Trump are related. Further, they’re both related to Darth Vader.
But Darth Vader isn’t real, cynics will protest. That’s because that’s what they want you to believe. Vader is real. He just resides in a galaxy far, far, far, far away.
As does Hitler, awaiting his time to return. If you recall, his body was burnd and buried. It was never seen by anyone but Hitler’s staff.
Remember, you read it here first.
A Democratic Party insider told me who the party supports as candidate for the 2028 nominee for POTUS.
“John F. Kennedy.”
I raised a salient objection. “He’s dead. Worse, he’s been buried.”
“True, true, true.”
“You’re not talking about a clone.”
“Of course not. That’d be silly. No, we’re thinking, AI.”
“Articial Intelligence?”
“What else? Listen, if corporations are people, why can’t AI be people?”
“I need to think about that,” I answered.
“Okay, let me tell you more. See if I can convince you. What we did is create an AI that’s modeled on President John F. Kennedy’s thinking. We fed all the interviews which we could find, all his papers, speeches, books, diaries, and journals, along with biographies about him, into a quantum computer. It then developed the ability to replicate JFK’s thinking and speaking, giving us a virtual entity who is just like him. It’s uncanny. Wait until you see it.”
I was shaking my head in skepticism. “It’ll never work.”
“We think it will. He polls very well.”
“I don’t think people are ready for AI to be elected to any office.”
“No, no, turns out that almost 80 percent of likely voters who were polled said they could support AI for president. A majority of voters think that AI is more principled and intelligent than many politicians holding office or running for nomination. In fact, more people are willing to vote for AI than a woman.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, but what about his assassination over sixty years ago? Surely, that’s a drawback.”
“No, no, no. Many people have always believed that JFK wasn’t really killed, that all of that was just a fiction to get him out of office.”
“Even if they believe that, it’s six decades later. He’d be over a hundred years old. Do you really think that people will support a candidate who is over hundred years old after what we endured with Joe Biden?”
My source grinned. “We told them that JFK was cryogenically stored. He’s only fifty years old.”
“They believe that?”
“You’d be surprised what they believe. Just to seal the deal, Elvis Presley is endorsing JFK.”
“Presley?” I laughed. “He’s been dead since — “
“No, no, he wasn’t dead. He was in storage, too. Trust me. We’ve done the research. The numbers support this idea.
“Presley and Kennedy are still alive. Along with Walt Disney and Jackie O. All are alive. They’ve all just been frozen. The time has come for the truth to be told.”
My source leaned forward. “The people are ready for Camelot’s return. JFK will kick Trump’s ass. Remember, you heard it here first.”
The weather was lively but not overly warm. Kind of late spring with mild summer suggestions.
The weather change ordered a wardrobe shift. My go-to coat for the last five months was now too warm and heavy. A perusal of closet offerings later, I was donning a zippered dark blue fleece piece.
Not worn for so long, finding it surprised me. I thought I’d gotten rid of it. Has to be twenty years old. Yes, I told myself, believing that I remembered buying it at the Stanford Shopping Center in Palo Alto when I lived in Half Moon Bay. Plenty of pockets. “Of course,” I imagined my wife saying. “It’s a man’s garment. If it was made for women, it wouldn’t have any pockets.”
Yes, the lack of pockets in women’s clothing was one of my wife’s peeves. After putting on the fleece, pleased that it still fit well, I dove into the pockets. The thing has six. One inside zip pocket over my right breast. Two inner pouch pockets lining either side of the zipper. An outer zipped breast pocket on the left, and two zippered outer vent pockets.
I started going through them. A pen. Wadded, dusty tissues. Tightly folded five dollar bill, kept company by two weary ones. A wrapped cough drop. Mask, as we wore during the pandemic. A quarter and two dull pennies. And a hard, small thing.
The hard small thing was dark gray. Plastic. Looked almost like a small car key fob. I didn’t recognize it. No markings on it at all. One center button. “What the fuck?” I asked the air.
My mind squirreled through my maze of existence, trying to place this thing. Failing that, I searched my memories for when I’d last worn this garment. Must have been during the pandemic. Because there was a mask, right? That made sense.
Frowning with deep concentration, I held up the gray thing and pressed the button and listened. I heard no sound. I pressed it in again, holding it in, raising it to the side of my head as I did.
Dizziness swept me up. My head lolled left. The urge to puke scaled my body. Lips tight against retching, I reached for a piece of furniture to hold myself up. Missing, I fell to my knees with a thud that shook the room. Trying further not to puke, I dropped to all fours.
“Got you, got you, got you,” I heard.
Who? my brain queried. Legs in jeans were to my vision’s right. “Who?” I wanted to voice but knew that I couldn’t without puking.
The gray thing was on the floor. I must have dropped it. A hand went for it. Dark blue fleece covered the arm.
I knew that fleece.
I was wearing that fleece.
A face showed up in my eyesight. My face. My hazel eyes were bright with humor. “It’s me,” the other me said. “Remember me?”
Belatedly remembering, I lunged for my other self.
I nimbly danced away with laughter. I looked up. Red darkened my vision. My eyesight was a tunnel that was growing smaller. The last thing I saw was my finger pressing the gray thing’s button.
Then I was inside it, looking out.
“You bastard,” I shouted. I knew what had happened. I didn’t know how I’d manage to get the gray thing into my pocket. Maybe I left it there. But I should remember. I must have blocked my memory of what happened before. I did now know that I was the visitor. I was the alien who had occupied that human body who I knew as me.
And now, it had been reversed.
Raising the gray thing, I looked at it at eye level. A grin sprawled over my face. “Now where should I put this?” I asked. “Clearly a pocket is not the best place.”
I watched. Nothing else I could do. Humming, I carried the gray thing with me inside out to the garage. I began realizing what I was going to do. I said, “No. No. Don’t. Wait.” I knew I didn’t hear me. I knew I wouldn’t care.
I picked up a shovel. Screaming inside, I listened as I went outside and dug a hole. A short drop followed, then I bounced around as the gray thing landed in its new home.
The light fell as dirt dropped in on the gray piece. I looked around my new place. Not as bad as I remembered it. A suite of rooms, replica of the place where I had just lived as a human.
Memories began returning about how everything worked here. It was not the same as the real world. Moving fast, I ensured the doors and windows were closed and locked.
As I said, it’s not the same as the real world.
I’ve been using a secret weapon to amuse me the last few weeks. Two, actually. Both are throwbacks for me.
Tim Dowling is an American living in the UK. He writes a column for the Guardian. I find them hilarious. I used to regularly read him. Then The Neurons dropped him out of the rotation. I never noticed.
I regularly read news in the Guardian. I like their coverage of U.S. news. So, while reading an article a few weeks ago, I saw a reference to the latest Tim Dowling column. Clicking on that, I resumed reading him, catching up on his past columns by reading one everyday.
He’s sixty years old. Married, with three sons. They have just moved out. He also has a dog, cat, and tortoise. He plays in a band and deprecates his playing. Being an animal lover and very fond of cats, I enjoy the tales relating to his household animals the most. Today, I read his column from September of 2023.
Tim Dowling: we’re moving bedrooms – before the cat kills me
My other secret vice — Well, it’s not my only vice. I have a large list of secret vices. It depends on whose morality is used to judge me.
But this vice is watching an old British science fiction show called Red Dwarf. I recently re-discovered it playing on a live TV channel on Prime.
I began watching that show in the early 1990s. I was assigned to Onizuka Air Station then in the San Jose-San Francisco Bay Area. KQED introduced me to Red Dwarf during their science fiction fund-raising marathons.
Red Dwarf is an interstellar mining ship. It’s principally manned by Lister, Rimmer, the Cat, and Kryden. Dave Lister is the last human alive. He was in stasis as punishment for having a cat onboard the Red Dwarf. He stayed in stasis for 3,000,000 years while the radiation levels declined to safe levels.
That was needed because Arnold Rimmer had an accident. The accident resulted in a radiation link that killed all the crew members except Dave Lister. Because Lister was in stasis.
Rimmer and Lister were roomates and worked together. They do not get along. But the computer, Holly, brought Rimmer back as a holograph as a companion for Lister so Lister doesn’t go insane.
Lister isn’t happy about Holly’s decision.
The Cat is a direct descendent of the cat behind Lister’s punishment. Cats have evolved into a sort of human cat variation. He’s a vain, vapid, and selfish character who intensely dislikes Rimmer and is often Lister’s ally.
All manner of science fiction action happens to the Red Dwarf crew. Others species are encountered. Time travel happens. The mail catches up with them. Rimmer believes in order and is ambitious but inept. Lister likes to party but is intelligent and lazy. They plot against one another. Nanobots stage a revolt. All males, they are hungry for female interactions.
Yes, it’s silly. Full of all gaps, contradictions, and plot holes. But it’s fun. Watching it returns me for a bit to when I was thirty years younger and the future looked brighter.
You gotta do something to get through these days, right?
Funny to me that this is a prompt today, as I was remembering these two teachers this morning before I went online. The pair of teachers were my favorites and most influential. One was encountered in sixth grade while the other taught me two years later.
First, each encouraged me to think harder and try harder. Through their support, I gained self-confidence. Both introduced me to new areas of literature. My sixth-grade teacher, Mrs Forsythe (who was previously Mrs Fogle) read aloud to the class every afternoon. One book she read to us was Flowers for Algernon. Noticing how much I enjoyed it, she took the time to suggest other books and authors to me. From this came my infatuation with science fiction and fantasy, and a lifelong love affair with reading.
Mrs Rubenstein, in the eight grade, taught me to read the news and actually think about what was being said about events of the era. This was during Nixon’s first term. The United States was still fighting in Vietnam. The intense Cold War with the USSR was one facet of worry for us, but many other wars raged, and students were protesting the world’s direction across the United States.
Both of these teachers fired an intense interest in events beyond the end of my nose. I hope that everyone has at least one teacher like them in their lives. I was fortunate to have two. There were several others for me who opened my mind as well, but these two women were very special in my development.
I will never forget them and the debts I owe them.
Michael Seidel, writer 