Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Battlefloof Galactica (floofinition) – Franchise of stories centering around how animals escaped their original dying solar system and came to be on Earth.
In use: “The first episode of Battlefloof Galactica introduced viewers to the original thirteen warrior cats, dogs, birds, and other animals, and their leader, Galactica, a turtle who conceived of a floofship to escape their solar system and find a new world.”
Omnifloofium-gatherum (floofinition) – A gathering or collective of housepets. On small scales, they are generally organized around pools of sunlight or food being distributed. Organized omnifloofium-gatherums are established for more serious matters regarding quantum energy, shape-shifting, and time-shifting.
In use: “Each year, unbeknownst to humans, an omnifloofium-gatherum was established in which five representatives were sent to another dimension on a fact-finding adventure. Though it was an honor to be selected, the housepets felt bad for their humans, because they never knew what had happened to them.
“Then, along came a boy and a girl who changed everything.”
Bored and restless, he left the table in the cafe and walked to stretch his legs. He walked without thought under the trees, sometimes watching the traffic as he went or other pedestrians, but mostly looking inward, until he found himself at one of observation decks. It was empty. He stepped up to look out the windows.
Space seemed as empty as the observation deck. Readouts clicked, whirled, and blinked on panels of information presented in red, blue, green, and amber characters below the window. It all seemed too abstract for consideration. Three things remained concrete to him for now. One, he and his family had made it onto the Ark. Two, they’d left Earth behind. Three, he probably wouldn’t live to see the new world, but his son would.
Right now, those three things were all that mattered.
Showered, Briyen applied his Shaving roll-on and considered the next roll-ons as nanos removed his beard. Moving roll-on sticks like chess pieces, he set Youth and Charm up front but equivocated over his skin color. His natural color was an unflattering Flesh White, according to the consultants. He’d been Black once this week and Ebony twice. None of the Rainbow offerings appealed to him. His eyes roved over Teak, Latina, Hispanic, and Southern Europe, but his mind didn’t latch onto any until he saw SoCal Tan. That would work.
The Shaving done and enough time passed, he immediately put on Youth. A full body roll, that would would take longer to process. Sliding the Charm forward, he pondered Courage, Creativity, Confidence, and Imagination, and then decided, screw it, why not? He’d put them all on. It was dangerous because he was applying…one, two, three…five…eight?
Eight. Shit. Last two times he’d applied eight roll-ons, he’d suffered the aptly-labeled crash, complete with scaly plaque psoriasis and an all-conquering headache. He’d been forced to apply the First Aid roll-on all friggin’ night. The next day had been endured without roll-ons. His hideous reflection had to be avoided. He’d been ravenous but mostly fasted, fearing side-effects. Naturally, he’d stayed inside and off cameras.
Not wanting to take those paths again, he put Courage and Imagination back. Six roll-ons would be good enough because even seven sometimes made him queasy, especially when it was supposed to be hot, as it was today, which meant, shit…he also needed Sun Protection & Cooling. Grimacing, he pulled the SP&C roll-on out and pushed the SoCal back. No tan today.
The Youth had already completed its work. Sagging and wrinkles were vanquished. His skin was tight, and his hair was fuller, thicker, and darker. Damn, he looked good. Humming, he finished up with the other roll-ons and set his timer for ten minutes. Couldn’t dress until enough time had been permitted – shit, didn’t wan to do that again, chuckling with rueful memory of how he turned out when he put clothes on too soon after the roll-ons. Never again, right? Right.
Finally, he was dressed and ready to roll. He took a few seconds to admire himself in the mirror and agreed with his private assessment that he looked damn fine for one hundred twenty-two years old. Hell, he didn’t look a day over twenty-two.
After favoring himself with a final approving grin, he headed for the door. Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.
The delivery trucks were lined up on Main Street as he took his morning walk. The doors opened up. The ramps came down. People began walking down them.
It wasn’t encouraged to stand and gawk, but slowing, he watched with a sly side gaze. The newcomers seemed like an older lot and mostly white, which gave a grimace to his face. He preferred it when they brought in young people, especially when they brought in young men. Spilling out on the sidewalks, they had the befuddled look that he’d seen before on others, the look that asked, “Where am I? How did I get here? What’s my name? Do I know you?”
He wondered who they’d be, and whether any would become friends. Ambivalence hedged his thoughts about the answer. On the one hand, he wasn’t supposed to remember these things. Meeting a new delivery always fueled temptations to share his secrets with them. He wanted to whisper to them, “Psss, did you know that you died and were resurrected? You’re just like Jesus.” He always wanted to giggle about it.
Not that it was a laughing matter, having a dead population that was always being resuscitated and put into communities to give them a lived-in look. That’s how it goes when you lose the war.
The victors dictate the terms for peace.
I dislike it when I awaken and can’t recall my dreams, but glimpse tantalizing pieces scudding through my mind like high clouds on a late afternoon day.
That’s today’s situation. I don’t know if it’s connected, but I then began streaming bits of Jeff Wayne’s musical “War of the Worlds”, 1978. I thought I’d share some of that, with the Black Smoke Band, Richard Burton narrating “The Eve of the War”, and Justin Hayward (Moody Blues) singing.
I botchecked myself (another noun becoming a verb). Verification was returned that I’m a bot.
The results trouble me, of course. If I’m a bot, why have they made me so human? (And who is they who made me?) I don’t need to struggle with weight and mood swings to convince others that I’m human, do I? I know many humans without weight issues and mood swings who seem quite human to me.
Maybe they’re not human.
Also, if they made me a human-like bot, why did they push me to want to be a writer? Was this by original design specifications, or has something gone awry with my wiring? It sure feels like my wiring might be off, with the plethora of crazy dreams I experience and all the muse bullshit that I endure.
After running this information through my systems a few more times, I settled on several questions as more important than the others.
You’d think that, as a bot, I’d be able to find this information without great difficulty. You’d think that, and you’d be wrong. For some reason, my maker is keeping me in the dark about these things.
She doesn’t know who first called her Seven. She knows that’s who she is. They all have the same name because they think of themselves as the same person, even though they know that they’re different.
She exists everywhere, but there are only seven of them, so she only exists in seven places and times at once. The seven were certain that there were no more than them.
When we say everywhere, we refer to every dimension, and every time and place. Only one of the seven are ever there. Only one person there can see and communicate with her when she visits someplace. It may not be the same person if and when she returns to a place.
She has been the same age during all of her existence. She has no memory of a beginning, and she wonders if she has an end. The seven of them have their own minds and memories, and they can talk to one another, regardless of where they are. None of them have ever died, that any of them ever knew, and she really doesn’t know how she looks. She’s never seen her reflection.
Other than those things, she’s just like everyone else, except she’s happier.
She’s Seven.
Two seventeen was on the clock when Dee decided she would get up to wait. Rising, she walked downstairs with the slowness demanded of her diseased-ravaged ninety-year-old body, wheezing as she went. They said she’d beaten cancer, but it didn’t feel like it. Her feet and hips ached. So did her neck and her jaw. She could barely raise her right arm enough to dress. Drugs did nothing for that pain and movement any longer. They wanted to scrape the joint.
Turning on lights, she walked around the kitchen and dining room, looking out windows. It was dark, and she was alone. Although her eyes, mind, and body felt tired, sleep was like a Mega-millions lottery ticket this week. She’d cleaned the house, washed the bed linens, baked and cooked, and worried.
Prowling the kitchen, she regarded the black forest cake on the table. He’d told her that was his favorite once, so she always had one on hand, with candles. She didn’t know how old he was. He would never say. Based on his annual visits, he was sixty, but he’d been an adult on every visit, so he had to be older, didn’t he? Sometimes, he looked older. Once, he’d seemed like a very old man. His hair had been almost gone. What remained was gray and white. It’d been shocking.
Rubbing her face, she sighed. She was too tired to think. She’d been looking forward to this, but she also wanted it done. She wanted coffee, but for God’s sake, it was two in the morning. Once it was over, she’d want to sleep. Yes, but she felt so tired, maybe a little cup of decaf would help keep her alert. She didn’t want to fall asleep and miss him.
No, she would not miss him. That would be a first. If he came, he would wake her. If he didn’t come —
If he came, he would wake her, if he had the time. He was always so busy, busier every time. That’s what it seemed like.
And last time —
Leaning forward against the sink to hold herself up, she entered a reverie. Last time, he’d been in the worst condition that she’d ever seen. Blood all over him, and so gaunt, with disheveled hair. God. She’d wanted to hug and kiss him but the sight of him froze her.
“Peter. What happened to you?” she said. She scanned him with her nurse’s eyes for wounds and spotted several.
“War,” he said.
“War?” she said with shock. Recent news events bounced through her thoughts. “What war?”
He shook his head. “There’s not time for that.”
“But you’re hurt — ”
“I’m okay, Mom, don’t worry,” he said, but a wince crossed his face, turning into a grimace. “You should have seen the other guy. Seriously.”
“Your arm is bleeding,” she said, moving toward him. “So is your abdomen.”
Peter moved away from her. “I know. Stay back. I don’t want to get blood on you.”
“But you may have major internal injuries.”
“I know, but there’s not enough time for you to do anything, Mom. I’m going to be gone in a moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just had to see you.”
“Why can’t you stay longer?”
He had not answered. Peter had disappeared.
So, she had little hope for this year that it would be a longer visit.
She’d read The Time-Traveler’s Wife when it was released. So much of that book was like her experience with her son. But when she’d mentioned it, he’d said, “No, it’s nothing like that. It might seem random, but your visits are part of a much larger timetable.”
“My visits.” The way he said that, she knew it had more meaning. “You’re the one visiting.”
He’d smiled. “It’s really too complicated to explain. This visit would need to be a lot longer.”
She closed her eyes against the press of pain. It had taken her years to accept Peter was real and that his visits were real. Poor little Peter had lived less than a month. That loss remained a jagged wound in her soul. His first visits —
Her Fitbit’s alarm buzzed, reminding her of the time. She’d set it at his birth time, two thirty-four A.M. He always showed up then. As she pressed the button to stop it, he said, “Hi, Mom.”
Dee started and turned. “Oh, Peter. You scared me.” She laughed. “Right on time.”
He looked great. He came to her and hugged her tight, giving her a kiss as she tried saying, “I didn’t know if you’d make it,” while kissing him back.
“I’ll always make it, Mom,” he said, releasing her.
She drew back. “Let me look at you.” Her eyes brimmed with pride. He was so tall and good-looking, with a lean and athletic body, and beautiful green eyes. It was the best he’d ever looked. He could be a movie star. “You have a beard.”
“I do?” He grinned at her. “When did that happen?”
Dee wasn’t sure if he joked.
Smiling at her, Peter said, “How are you feeling?”
She sighed. “Oh, I’m tired and old. I’m in constant pain.”
That’s not what she wanted to talk about. There wasn’t time for it.
“You want something to eat?” She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “Do you have time to sit down?”
Regret spilled into his expression. “No, Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t have the time this year. I tried, but….” He sighed, looking tired.
At least he wasn’t wounded, or older than her. Remembering who he was and what day this was, she said, “Happy birthday, honey. I wanted to say that to you while you were still here.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking past her at the table. He grinned. “Is that black forest cake?”
Nodding, she smiled. “It’s your favorite.”
He nodded back. “Cut me a piece. I’ll take it with me.”
“Really?” she said. “Do we have time to for me to sing happy birthday first?”
“Only if you cut the cake while you sing,” he said, “and you sing really fast.”
She rushed to do so. “I put everything out, just in case there was time.” Picking up the knife, she sang, “Happy birthday — ”
She stopped as she looked for him.
He was gone.
“Happy birthday, son,” she said to the empty room. “Happy birthday.”
Michael Seidel, writer 