Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Reflooftive (floofinition) – a person’s behavior imitating a pet’s action; a housepet’s efforts to imitate or duplicate people’s behavior.
In use: “The morning became a reflooftive routine. First, when the dog stretched, she dropped down and stretched like him, wiggling her butt like he wagged his tail. Then, when she went into her yoga routine, he joined alongside her, stretching and putting his leg over his head. It always made her laugh.”
I’m fighting waste and ageism wherever I find it and have realized an amendment is in order.
I think everyone is familiar with the five-second rule. To ensure we’re addressing the same rule, the five-second rule states that food items dropped on the floor can still be consumed if they can be retrieved before five seconds expire.
This discriminates against older people. Our elders can often encounter problems bending over and picking things up. Hell, just noticing that they dropped something can take several seconds.
Therefore, I’m proposing an amendment to the five-second rule. Individuals over fifty-five years of age will be allotted one extra second to the five-second-rule.
Examples: a person of sixty years of age will have an additional five seconds. That gives them ten seconds to notice they dropped food, find it, pick it up, and eat it. Someone who is seventy will have an extra fifteen seconds (twenty in total).
Of course, if you’re over one hundred, you can take all the time you want, sugar.
The floor is open for discussion.
Done for the day, he packed up and walked toward the front door. Seeing Gwen, he veered toward her. Looking up, she said, “Hi, how’re ya?”
“Good.” He stopped at Gwen’s table. “You?”
“The sun’s mostly shining, it’s mostly warm, so I’m good.”
“How’s your car search?”
“Great.” She looked tired around her mouth and her eyes but Gwen grinned. “I was driving down Phoenix Avenue yesterday afternoon. I was thinking of a gold Toyota Camry, and when I stopped at the red light, I looked to the left, and there was a gold Camry for sale in an empty lot on the corner.”
“Wow.”
“I turned and went in there. The owner had just parked it. He’d literally just put it up for sale and was going to go home and post it to eBay. He wanted two thousand. He’s a mechanic and always took care of the car and had all the receipts, and he’d redone the interior.”
“Sounds good.”
“Then, when I was talking to him, he said he was asking two thousand but he liked me so he’d let it go to me for fourteen hundred.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m so pleased that I manifested that for myself. I had a need and I manifested it. And it has a name. He calls the car Goldie.” She showed him a picture of a clean but older gold Camry.
“Good for you, I’m happy for you,” he said. “Congratulations.” As she smiled at him, he said, “I have to go now.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Congratulations again.”
“Thanks.”
“See you later. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He walked out into the sunlight and paused to think about the conversation, smiling as he realized that Journey’s song, “Don’t Stop Believin'”, had been playing in the background during their conversation.
Inhaling, he looked up at the sun. It was a beautiful day, a little chilly but boldly sunny. Spreading his wings, he rose into the sky and disappeared.
Always difficult to address this question. I would have once said, “Tell the truth.” Morals, ethics, integrity, and that shit. But I’ve since thought, this is a Schrodinger situation, innit? It’s a thought experiment that their writing is bad today but it could be better next week, next month, next year. Or bad writing may become the new vogue. I’d rather keep the friendship. I don’t know how the the writing will be when tomorrow is opened.
So you have this friend. You value them enough to respect them and avoid hurting their feelings as much as possible.
You and this friend continuously bond over the fact that you’re both writers. It’s not the primary reason you get along, but it’s nice to have someone to “talk about writing” with, and a solid reminder that you aren’t the only one struggling to put ideas into words and make those words accessible to the masses.
You’ve gotten to the point in your “writing relationship” where you both are willing to swap prose knowing you’re good enough friends that each will receive honest feedback without resentment — a great place to be, as far as writing relationships go.
There’s just one problem.
When your friend emails you a piece of their manuscript-in-progress, you sit down, open it up, get a few sentences in and realize …
It’s bad.
Like…
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So you know that they’ve come out with Genius Coffee. It’s about time, innit? But, I hasten to inquire, where is our genius booze? I’d like to walk into my fav beverage hangout and ask for a Genius IPA.
Wouldn’t it be excellent if McDonald’s and Wendy’s began selling genius milkshakes? (Picture those television commercials.) Have a Genius Coke with your Jack? Prefer a Genius Red Bull? No doubt we’d need to have genius wine, vodka, tequila, to be fair, along with genius water, for those who don’t partake.
Maybe, then, if all these genius beverages work, we can make progress on what humanity is doing to each other and the rest of the world. Doubts force me to say, probably not. More likely, some will declare, “I don’t trust geniuses, so why should I swallow a genius drink?”
I don’t blame them. I’d be dubious of genius drinks. God knows what I’d learn about myself that I’ve worked so hard to hide.
Did you ever think about what it might be like to actually melt away?
Would you melt all over simultaneously, or start on the outside? Do you begin melting at some specific body part, like your heart? Perhaps your brain starts melting first, giving the signal for the rest to proceed to melt, like the green flag at a car race.
Maybe you start melting from the bottom, growing shorter as your feet melt in a pool below your ankles, causing your pants’ hems to drag along the ground, lowering your inseams by several inches. It starts with your toes, soles, and heel, and then you melt up through your legs. The ankles melt, followed by your shin and your calves. Then your knees droop and dribble away. Next are your thighs, pursued by your butt, hips, and your pelvis.
Everything is melting from your bone marrow out. Soon, you’re just a torso in a pool of your liquid self, a being whose head looks too big, with arms that are two long. Then your abdomen and back joins the melting. Eventually, all that remains is your head on your neck, sticking up from the ground like a flower blooming toward the sun.
Floofsical (floofinition) – a housepet’s unusual behavior or appearance, especially in an appealing and amusing way; a play or movie strongly featuring housepets in central roles.
In use: “Homeward Bound: the Incredible Journey is a well-known 1993 floofsical that featured a cat and two dogs in a remake of the 1963 movie.”
I move left and you slip right
down the stairs, bouncing and tumbling
through a night of
righteous indignation and outright
hopes for what could be
more optimistic than your simple
thinking that it’ll all come out
once we come to the understanding
that minute by minute, we’re
losing the way that moved us forward
and back we slide
Floofare (floofinition) – a short and showy blast of trumpets, often imaginary, that accompanies a housepet’s entrance; a housepet’s showy outward display.
In use: “Whenever the door opened and his name was called, the puppy galloped in, and around the room, putting on such a display that all could hear the floofare announcing his entrance.”
fat shame
hair shame
body shame
lip shame
boob shame
skin shame
– “You ain’t nothin’ ‘less you got the look.”
smart phone
iphone
TV
car
clothing
house
– “Better work harder until you got the best.”
money
mansion
influence
power
Republicans
Democrats
– “You don’t matter ’cause you’re not rich.“
minorities
women
immigrants
L-G-B-T
children
foreigners
– “Who the hell are you?”
