Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
He took an afternoon walk up and down the town’s hills. Many interesting sights were seen but what made him think the most was the signs posted at a house of worship: “No Trespassing”. “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted”. He saw at least four of those two signs on the two side of the church he passed.
He wondered what they worshipped inside.
Feels like Marpril today. No wind, light spring showers and robust sunshine making nice. 50 degrees F in sight with eyes toward 65 F.
It’s Monday, Marpil 13, 2023, 3.4/13/2023. Sunrise took over at 7:26 AM and the sun’s rule will continue in Ashlandia until 7:15 PM. Snow still caps the mountains and ridges, so you have a developing spring portrait set against a snowy black and white background.
The spring ahead hour change is a little drain on my morning buoyancy. Yes, I do enjoy a little bounce before my coffee. Ain’t big, but it’s there. It comes from the sunshine streaming in when I get up. Now, we’ve set the time forward and the sunshine ain’t there, and there goes my bounce to eagerly take on the day. Back to the roll out trudge for a few days.
I’m one of those who come down against the time change. I don’t think much is saved. I’ve seen studies which vet that. Is it worth it for what it does to so many people’s individual energy banks and lives?
Thinking about time drove The Neurons to deliver a plethora of songs about time. I asked Bing’s fancy new search engine how many songs about time have been written. It replied, “I’m not sure. One source cites more than twenty-seven. Another says there’s been thirty.” Damn, I think I could brainstorm thirty before my coffee.
Anyway, I moved away from the usual and favorites. Those are the ones heard in childhood, so they have staying power, or the ones which came at a special moment in life. Instead, I just rolled some in my head. Finally, good old Kevn came through.
No, Kevin isn’t a performer or a brain cell’s name, or search engine. Kevin is a friend. we spent time together in the mid to late nineties. He was a Darius Rucker, Hootie & the Blowfish fan. Thanks to him and a camping trip with him (Laguna Seca, for the vintage cars), I know the song, “Time” by H&tB from 1993. Good sing, I think. It is one of those songs, which, while listening to it, we asked one another, “What is he singing?”
Stay pos and enjoy your day. Carpes diem, yo. I’m carpes some coffee. Here’s the Blowfish. Cheers
We’re into the week’s repeat cycle. Sunny. Blue and white sky. 35 F. High, 41. Winter warning out for later today. Snow down to 1500 feet. 1-3 inches. Sunrise a minute earlier than yesterday. Sunset a minute later today.
That’s the summary for March 7, 2023. Tuesday.
Got Foreigner’s “Double Vision” from 1978 in the morning mental music stream. Dream brought it on. Won’t encumber you with details. Actually, still sorting it. I will say that I don’t know how “Double Vision” is related.
1978 found me going from Texas to WV, from the military to a restaurant owner and a college student. Hectic period of searching for myself.
It’s a brief ‘un today. My annoyance meter is rising. Just one of those things. Happens once a month. Usually one to two days. Gets really dark sometimes. Don’t know in advance where it’ll fall.
Stay pos if you can. A sip of coffee awaits my lips. Have a better one. Cheers
Sunshine beamed in on gray rays at 6:45 Ashlandia morning time. As the hours scurry past, snow fields lose their battle against heat. Their edges draw in with softer roundness. Reinforcement flurries are flying in later today. Will it be enough? Will it arrive in time? It’s dire for the snow. Caught in the situation, icicles cling to gutters and drainpipes. Crystallized snow falls off branches and leaves with tinkling hisses.
It’s 31 F, on its way to 44 F, according to the weather mongers.
It’s Thursday, March 2, 2023, a hazy wintry shade. Spring has temporarily slid its intentions back into the Ashlandia shadows. But fresh stocks of doughnuts are in stores and bakeries. Sunset arrives in the evening, 6:03.
Les chats aren’t pleased with the weather situation, particularly Papi. His energy boils up. Sunshine reinvigorates him. Tthere he goes, dashing through the snow…well, not dashing, but employing small steps, bean-toeing on his tiny paws — such small murder mittens, he has — back to the house’s inside warmth for distraction. We have things to do, we explain to him, around petting and playing with him. More, he begs with sweet eyes and voice. What are we to do against such a power but obey?
I cleaned our carpetting the other day. As I drifted through that mechanical process, my freed mind contemplated me, my life, my writing. Cleaning house is always a meditative function for me. As thoughts joined and fragmented, I drifted through the usual shallows of who I am, where I’m at, and where I’m hiding. Out of this, The Neurons pulled a song up, dusted it off, and put into into the mental music stream where it still plays this morning. “Holly Holy” by Neil Diamond” when I was a young teenager. Looking it up, records show it was 1969. It wasn’t a popular song among my friends. Too slow and most said, “I don’t understand it.” Nor did I. It’s buildup hooked me, and I sat, listening to the words, trying to get them right, baffled by what I heard. But I heard and understood some of the first lines, “Where I am, what I am, what I believe in,” had me. This is an exploration and a declaration. I identified with it.
Coffee’s aromatic steam rises from my cup, enticing my lips. Stay pos, and own this Thursday like it’s a gift you didn’t expect. Here’s the tune. Cheers
It was a lot of waste.
Morgan was uncomfortable. It felt unnatural. All these years of recycling and trying to reduce waste. Now he was piling it outside.
“There.” Grinning in delight, ogling their pile of junk, Joyce backed away from it. “That’s a pretty good pile of junk and garbage.”
His wife peered up into the sky. “When are they supposed to come?”
“Any time.” Exasperation frosted Morgan’s tone. This had been explained numerous times. “They know it’s here. They’ll come and get it.”
Joyce answered, “Why can’t they tell us when?”
That, too, had been gutted as a topic. “I don’t know.”
He and Joyce studied their pile. Old printers and laptops. Unused televisions. Rugs. Boxes of junk. Old paint. Bags of shredded personal papers. Joyce insisted they be shredded. She didn’t trust the aliens. Like, what did she think was going to happen? These extra terrestrials from another solar system had come to Earth to steal their personal information?
It was good that they’d come. First, they cleaned all the oceans, and then junkyards. They paid well for everything.
“This is a great place,” a leader, Galic, said in a televised press conference.
Galic was a gorgeous black woman. Every female alien he’d seen was eye-watering stunning. He’d not seen any males among the ET, formally known as Porqzens. R-Q-Z was pronounced as a hacking sound.
Galic said, “We love your junk. We’ll take all of it that you can give us.” They were also eager to tear down houses, buildings, and bridges not in use. They wanted it all. “We’ll you if you want. Gold, dollars, diamonds, crypto. Just name it.”
Not everyone liked it. “Why are they doing this? What do they want it?” Mostly conservatives were asking these questions because Galic told them, “We’ll reprocess it to create materials and energy. We’re already so efficient that we have no waste.”
Humans weren’t appeased. They had reasons behind their doubts. “How do we know they’re real?” GOP Presidential candidate asked. “What if they’re taking all these resources to build machines to take us over? What about the recycling and garbage disposal companies? They’ll all go out of business. That’ll put unemployment up.”
Others speculated, “This is a liberal trick. There are no aliens. They’re using these materials to secretly build death rays and disintegration guns. They’re gonna use the disintegration guns to take away all our guns.”
Yes, it was a pickle.
Flat-earthers were freaked. “The Porqzens are Underworlders. They’ve lived on the other side of the planet, the bottom. They’re coming to take us over.”
Morgan didn’t care. All he had to do was put his junk at his curb for pickup? Lot easier than loading it up, hauling it to the various places, and unloading it. And they were paying him, instead of him paying them? Groovy.
A Porqzen popped into the space in front of Morgan and Joyce. Gorgeous, of course. Tight dark red outfit. Looked like leather. Blonde. Smile like a billion watts.
“Hi, Morgan and Joyce. I’m Zugar. We’re taking your waste now.” She handed them dark goggles. “Most people want to see it happen, so we provide these goggles. Please cover your eyes so the light doesn’t hurt them.”
Morgan and Joyce did. Through the lens, Morgan witnessed a dull light cover his pile. Looked purplish under the lens. Stayed there for about five seconds.
“That’s it,” Zugar said. “All gone. You can take your goggles off. Those are yours to keep for future pickups.” She whipped out a slim wallet and counted paper money out. “One thousand dollars, as agreed. It’s the minimum, I’m afraid.” She sounded like she meant it.
Joyce took the money. She and Morgan stared at it.
Zugar said, “It is real U.S. currency.” She laughed. “We sold a bucket of leftover lithium to the U.S. government.” She handed Morgan a card. “Just call us when you’re ready for your next pickup. Any questions?”
The humans shook their heads.
“Then I’ll take my leave. You all have a great day.” With a small bow and a bright smile, Zugar disappeared.
“Well, that was easy,” Joyce said. “She looked like Farrah Fawcett, don’t you think?”
Morgan nodded. “Do you think we’ll ever go to their planet?”
Ashlandia’s Little Libraries are being emptied. People are stealing the books and selling them online. A person has been seen doing it. Elder white male, they describe, with a white beard and a green jacket. Doesn’t really narrow the field in Ashlandia, which has a population stacked with elderly white males with white beards. He was driving an older red Subaru, which figures; Subarus are as numerous as grass in Ashlandia.
The crime isn’t limited to Ashlandia. Stealing the books raises questions. The books are free and there to be taken. So can they be stolen?
My answer is that when you go through town and empty a dozen Little Libraries and take all the books and sell them online, you’re violating the spirit. I guess you can’t be charged and convicted for that, though.
Heavy snow fell. Watching it, he said, “Alexa, will it snow in Ashland today?”
“Snow is not expected in Ashland.”
His wife joined him. “Alexa, is it snowing now?”
“It is not snowing in Ashland now.”
“Alexa, then what is that white stuff failing from the sky?”
“There are reports of a dusty white wet material falling in Oregon.”
They laughed. Alexa was trying to gaslight them again.
Sketchy snow paints Ashlandia. Less than an inch in most places. A fine job has been done on the streets, walks, and drives. They are all white perfection, a canvas for car and animal prints.
Enough snow effect has settled that ambient noise is muffled. Footsteps, rolling tires, motor sounds, barks, snap out, intruders on the silence.
Winting in Ashlandia. Familar as summer wine.
Today is Thursday, 022323, the only time it’ll be 022323 for another hundred years. 27 F, a few wavering steps up from the overnight’s 23 F, ten steps away from the suspected high 37 F. The sun’s appearance was at 6:56 AM. Its light dazzles off the whites. Weather gnomes inform us the sun will shine on Ashlandia for forever or until 1753, whichever comes first.
The Neurons have slotted “Hanginaround” by The Counting Crows outof 1999 into the magic morning mental music stream. Came to me as I was in the coffee shop, editing, slashing, and pillaging a manuscript. Pausing to consider other regulars and their energies, I thought, man, this group hangs around here a lot, thirteen strangers united by a place. The Neurons fired the song up in memory within seconds and here we are the next morning.
Ah, it’s 32F now. Almost 10 AM. Sun has melted off the hard surfaces, but man is that reflected light bright from the rest. Stay pos. Pursue your Thursday activities and dreams. A cuppa coffee and I’ll learn to run. Here is the music.
Cheers
A small patch of blue sky threatens the fifty shades of gray above Ashlandia. Today is Wednesday, Feb 22, 2023. As Bill Withers sang, “Ain’t no sunshine.” There is daylight, coming to us since 6:57 this morning, illuminating the snow frozen across the ground. @ 33 F, the streets and walks are clear. The weather monitors note it feels like 33 F now, but we’ll punch 36 as a high before celestial mechanisms take our sunshine away at 5:52 PM.
For anyone tracking the stats at home, we’re into our final week of Feb, 2023. It’s the first final week of the second month of the year.
It’s warm in the house, thanks to all the connections which evolved through the centuries regarding gas and electricity, heat, walls, foundations, and roofs. Had the fireplace up last night. Thinking about fire prompted The Neurons to slot “Good Times Roll” by Jimmie Allen and Nelly from 2020 into the morning mental music stream. There’s a chorus line from the song about the good fire rolling. The song is an interesting sound, bit of country, bit of rock, a sound like something out of four decades past.
Stay pos. Make your midweek work for you. Give me so joe and I’ll get right on it. Here’s the music for your listening pleasure. Cheers
Day 2. He rode in silence. Forty miles an hour. The open car drove itself, allowing him to gape at the scenery.
So gorgeous. He knew now what breathtaking meant.
Although he’d eaten breakfast after an overnight stop, he snacked as he went. Nervousness.
Other people weren’t encountered. Only bots. They didn’t interact. Once this had been cities. New York. Pittsburgh. Philadelphia. As climate changed and space travel advanced, people departed the planet. Pockets of humanity remained. Some worked for the place he visited, the Great Earth Library. Built in the twenty-third century, trillions of books lined the high, massive shelves. Paperbacks and hardcover books were still being published on less advanced planets.
That’s where he came in.
The car slowed. He could have teleported to the location. Where’s the fun in that?
Turning right, the small vehicle approached a librarian station. The car hummed to a halt. A bot came out.
Stiffly he climbed from the car. Stretched. Picked up the packet from the other seat.
The bot said, “Merr Liu-Gardner?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been expecting you. Would you like to sign our guest book? It can be done digitally with your bios or cursive on paper. Many guests prefer the latter.”
“I’ll do cursive.” He picked up the pen. Bic. Blue ink.
A fresh page awaited. He flipped to the previous page. One entry, six years before. Ngato from Mars Station Five.
Smiling, he signed his name, dated it, and added his home, Cixin Outpost, Trisolaria. Despite that name, only one sun warmed his world. Three moons, though. One red. Two white. All beautiful.
His great-grandfather named the planet and led the colonizing expedition. He’d taught his grandson cursive writing, feeling it important to know. “Let’s not let the old knowledge die.”
Poul Liu-Gardner II handed the box to the robot. “My great-grandfather wrote and published these books. The Library was established after he died but Dad always thought the books deserved to be here. Two are non-fiction, a history of our world and another about our city. The other six are fiction.” He smiled. “Three murder mysteries and three thrillers.”
“I understand. Thank you for the gift. These are the first from your world. We will shelve and honor them.”
“I know. There are more books from my world in the car. I just wanted to personally deliver these.”
“Of course. We’ll unload them.”
“Thanks.”
“Feel free to walk the shelves and enjoy the books. You can remove them from the shelves and read them here, but they can’t be removed.”
“Thank you.”
Poul II watched the bot take the books away. Lost and empty-handed, he gazed up at books.
Deep breath. Sigh.
He’d smelled books before. Grandpa Poul had established a library. Of course. Today’s smell dizzied him. Maybe it was the sheer number of books. Perhaps it was the thoughts behind them, or the readers’ thoughts.
Probably all those things. Strolling among the shelves, he thought that he might write a book. He’d always thought about writing one. The desire now was an urgent weight.
Sitting on a bench, he drew out his pad. Opened it.
A blank screen waited.
He could type. Or use voice. Grandpa Poul always printed his first rough draft.
He didn’t have paper.
His fingers tapped.
Once in a Lifetime
Chapter One
The stranger from Trisolaria was a formidable presence.
Michael Seidel, writer 