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.
Sometimes, you get up and start riding the wave of the day, but other days, you hang back, waiting for the wave to develop.
There had been decisions before, but things change, so new decisions were reached and accepted. What had been important became meaningless as priorities sifted like sand dunes.
Others ran into him, exchanging greetings, but then, privately told one another, “He’s really changed,” “Yes, he let himself go.”
They saw it as a bad thing.
Do you know that moment when you first smell the brewed coffee and lift a cup of it up to your lips, and feel the heat radiating toward you? You take that first sip and let it loiter in your mouth and slip down your throat, and think, “Wow, that’s so good.” You take another sip, and the sip becomes a long, lingering swallow that hefts a sigh in you as your lips finally part with your cup, and it comes to you, that might be the best thing of your day?
But then you go on, and there are other good things during the day, and you think, “This can be a pretty good life.”
Naw, that’s probably just the coffee talking.
“All you men,” she said,
“All you women,” he said,
“All you Republicans,” she said,
“All you Libertarians,” he said,
“All you Democrats,” she said,
“All you Greens,” he said,
“All you people who don’t vote,” she said,
“All you people voting illegally,” he said,
“All you reactionaries,” she said,
“All you slaves,” he said,
“All you gays,” she said,
“All you lesbians,” he said,
“All you blacks,” she said,
“All you whites,” he said,
“All you elites,” she said,
“All you apathetic people,” he said
“All you cops,” she said,
“All you military,” he said,
“All you illegal aliens,” she said,
“All you people on welfare,” he said,
“All you rich people,” she said,
“All you poor people,” he said,
“All you thieves,” she said,
“All you drug-dealers,” he said,
“All you addicts,” she said,
“All you criminals,” he said,
“All you killers,” she said,
“All you corrupted government workers,” he said,
“All you CEOs,” she said,
“All you teachers,” he said,
“All you parents,” she said,
“All you working women,” he said,
“All you Mexicans,” she said,
“All you communists,” he said,
“All you ignorant, uneducated people,” she said,
“All you snobs,” he said,
“All you people clinging to old ideas,” she said,
“All you fascists,” he said,
“All you NAZIs,” she said,
“All you Japs,” he said,
“All you Southerners,” she said,
“All you Northerners,” he said,
“All you people in rural areas,” she said,
“All you people in the cities,” he said,
“All you idiots,” she said,
“All you foreigners,” he said,
“All you Chinese,” she said,
“All you refugees,” he said,
“All you old people,” she said,
“All you young people,” he said,
“All you conservatives,” she said,
“All you libruls,” he said,
“All you white Supremacists,” she said,
“All you feminazis,” he said,
“All you atheists,” she said,
“All you Evangelicals,” he said,
“All you hateful assholes,” she said,
“All you whiners,” he said,
“You’re the reason we’re in this mess,” they said.
Millions of bright green things floated and twirled through the sky toward me and the rest. They reminded me of green snow flurries. A companion said, “What’s that?”
I was recognizing them as bright green parrots. Reaching out, I collected a handful of them and confirmed, they’re green parrots. Small as peas, they were much lighter, and they were alive.
“Tiny green parrots,” I said, offering a cupped handful of parrots to another, careful not to injure the birds.
It was an odd interlude in an odd dream. Before that, I’d been helping others. First, I was at a small business. Like a food kiosk, it was a wooden structured attached to the front of a large office building. The kiosk needed painted. I was told to paint it brown. It wasn’t the best color, in my opinion, but I would do as told.
Midway through painting the kiosk, I took a break. After wandering, I came across shack. Inside was a young boy and his dog.
The boy appeared to be a ten-year-old Mexican, and the dog was black and large. I’d found the boy in a shack. Asking questions, I confirmed that the shack was where he lived. He had little food or clothing, and his body and garments reflected that.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand. “You’ll live with me. I’ll give you food. Bring your dog. You’re a package.”
We went to my house, which had no remarkable details in the dream. Taking the boy in, I asked him his name (I don’t remember what it is), and fed him and the dog. My father entered with another man. I introduced the boy and his dog, and told my father, “He’s living here now. Take care of him.” I left.
Heading back to the kiosk, I saw a can of light blue paint. I decided that would be a better color than the brown. I don’t know whether I took the paint or bought it, but it was now mine. Heading back toward the kiosk, I encountered another kiosk. I was also painted the same brown. Meeting a woman there, I lamented about the lack of business and product and then realized that I was speaking to the owner. Confirming that, I suggested we paint her business with the light blue paint that I had. As she vacillated, I said, “I’ll do it,” and started painting it. That made her happy.
We talked while I painted. I told her that I owned the other kiosk (which had apparently transpired as I was going about) and that I was also painting my business the same color blue, and that I was adding white and gold dream. That seemed to make her happy. I told her that I’d do the same for her business.
Friends came by and began helping. We needed more paint, and I also wanted to begin painting my business, so some of us left. As we walked and talked, looking for the needed paint, the green parrots arrived.
After the green parrot interlude, I returned to my business. Friends had already arrived and were painting it the new colors. That made me happy, but a man in uniform approached.
A badge was on his shirt pocket. He was looking for the boy. I told him that he was with me. The officer told me that wasn’t acceptable. He wanted to take the boy away. I took the officer back to see the boy and show him the boy was okay. The officer still wasn’t happy, but left, promising to come back. I asked the boy what he wanted to do, and he said he wanted to stay with me. I said, “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
The dream ended.
Floofxit (floofinition) – plans or attempts to withdraw from a housepet. Floofxit is often associated with trying to get up without disturbing a furry friend, generally because they look so cute, but can be applied to other problems, such as trying to leave the house without the pet escaping the house.
In use: “Her floofxit was well-practiced. The cat was smart, though. She had to move fast, distracting the cat with treats before racing to the door and out. Then, failing to ignore the cat’s wails, always answered back, “I’ll be back in a few hours,” after the door was closed. It was like that every day.”
We pulled out the 1984 card table today. Bought in 1984 for less than twenty dollars, this is one of the oldest things we own. Black, we bought it to use as a work space for our first computer and printer. We stuck the table in a corner in the bedroom – we had only one – and loaded the computer up. That computer was a Kaypro IV which, with a dot-matrix printer that used fan-folded paper, cost eighteen hundred dollars.
We’d just returned from a four year assignment to Kadena AB, Okinawa, Japan. Now stationed at Shaw AFB in SC, the computer revolution was pulling us in. The Kaypro was the answer. Running at 4.87 MHz and running dual five and quarter inch floppies, the Kaypro had a nine-inch green screen. We used it for games and wordprocessing. It ran on CPM and used the Perfect series of software. I also used it to learn Basic and a few Basic variations.
The Kaypro was abandoned when we reached Germany in 1985. We bought a Zenith 150 with a color monitor. Still running 4.87, MS-DOS was the operating system. We had 128 KB of RAM and still had two five and a quarter-inch floppies, but I expanded the system, adding CPUs, hard drives, fans, RAM, and eventually a three and a half-inch floppy.
That puppy is gone as well, replaced since by multiple laptops, notebooks, and towers.
We still have that table, though. Pulled it out of its storage in the garage for a picnic. It’s a little worn but that thing hasn’t needed an upgrade yet. It’s been augmented, but never replaced.
Feeling his Fitbit buzz, Thomas leaped up, hurrying out of the house as he checked the time and confirmed, yes, 4:59.
It was sunny, which was helpful. He ran out of the house to the sidewalk, scattering the snoozing cats on his porch into three directions. On the sidewalk, he stopped, panting fast and holding still. He checked his shadow. It was crisply defined on the white pavement. The other wasn’t there.
The Fitbit said it was still 4:59. It didn’t show seconds, which he lamented. Cars rumbled by, breezes tousled the trees’ leaves, and the cats crept out to see what he was doing.
Then, it must have been five, because the shadow was there. “Who are you?” Thomas said.
“Your shadow,” the shadow said. “One of many.”
“Many?”
“Yes. You’re the one true person. The rest, like me, are just shadow.” The voice and shadow were fading.
“Wait,” Thomas said, a ridiculous request because the shadow couldn’t wait. It was a five o’clock shadow. Why did it appear? What did it all meant?
He didn’t know. At this point, only his shadow knew for sure.
Michael Seidel, writer 