Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofscribe (floofinition) – 1. A person who writes about animals, particularly housepets. 2. An animal who acts as historian or recorder, keeping notes on what happens.
In use: “Bunny the cat was the official floofscribe. She protected her diary because she had the kibble on everyone. It would be especially bad if the Humans ever found it. Well, if they found it and could read flooflish.”
If you know me and my blog scribblings, reading the post’s title might prompt you to think that I’m talking about the alt-rock group, Cake, being in my stream. They’re not, although I sympathize with them and the theft of their music gear in Portland, OR.
But, if you read my blog posts, you might also think I’m talking about food. I like food. I don’t often post about it, but it’s been on display recently in conjunction with health issues (nothing too serious).
The cake, though, comes from my writing and dreams. Ahah, there we are the other tracks that I’m often following when I post.
Cake has been part of my writing and dreaming worlds the last few days. My April Showers 1921 protagonist encounters a survival group. The group is made up of children. After rescuing him from an attack by a pack of dogs, they take him to their fort to have cake, incidents and details delivered by the muses on Wednesday. Thursday was spent broadening and detailing the scene. Several cake options are available. He likes chocolate, so he chooses to have a large slice chocolate layer cake with buttercream chocolate between the layers and fudge frosting on top. A team of children baked it; teams of children baked all the cakes. Anders wonders where and how they have these resources to bake cakes, but other important matters are at hand, and he can’t pursue the answers.
So, okay, been writing about cake. It must’ve bled over into real life, because, last night, I dreamed about cake.
In a rollicking dream, a competition was going on. The activity was too frenzied and chaotic for me to keep hold off upon waking, but I know that I did damn well in the dream competition. What I do remember very well was that cake was being served at the end, to reward participants. I was so happy, I was giddy. The big piece of sheet cake presented to me on a plate had yellow cake and white frosting with roses, and it fell apart on my plate.
The server apologized and told me that she’d get me another one. I took the plate, though, telling her, it didn’t matter. I could eat it even if it was falling apart.
Then I ate it with my hands, laughing as I did.
It was a weirdly satisfying dream.
Today’s song is one of my favorite, recurring rocking walking songs.
“Good Times Roll” is a 1979 hit for The Cars. Although it’s a sarcastic comment on being part of the rock scene, I always apply it to my writing efforts and the muses.
If the illusion is real
Let them give you a ride
If they got thunder appeal
Let them be on your side
[Chorus]
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Won’t you let the good times roll-oll
Let the good times roll
n/t to Genius.com
I walk away from a writing day feeling pretty good, and think, that was a good write. Let the good times roll. Then the song pops into my head. Its chugging, relaxed beat is good for fast striding, oddly enough.
Yeah, let the good times roll.
Picking up his computer bag, he called, “I’m off. See you later.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Have a good write.”
Closing the door, he headed out for the street and thought, She turned write into a noun. That isn’t right.
Swinging has bag onto his back, he thought, I hope I have a good write. This week’s been strong with good writes.
Striding down the street and looking up at the sky, he thought, I hope she didn’t jinx me.
Hulley paused from writing his novel. He’d seen and finished a long scene, all praise the muses. Once that was done, he needed to collect where he was and what was to be done.
Scanning the other patrons and front door, he picked up his coffee. Half remained, but cold as iced-tea. Time? Been here sixty-five minutes. Sipping the coffee, he continued peering around, debating options, choices, and plans. Plenty of time remained but his writing energy seemed as spent as a summer storm. It’d been a good day of writing, but —
His eyes picked up on the opening front door, and then his brain shouted, “Holy shit.” His brain’s declaration slammed the rest of his being into shocked stillness. Through the front door came a pale white man, about six three, narrow-framed, with thin white hair and an ancient poets’ beard. He wobbled like he could be tipsy or suffering from a balance issue. Dressed in ragged, soiled denims on this ninety-plus day with a yellow Polo shirt, a Cubs hat, and aviator styled sunglasses, he didn’t fit in. Hulley gagged on recognition: Breech.
It couldn’t be Breech. He almost laughed at the suggestion. It was too freaking insane. Breech was his fucking character, star of the last scene, a gray-blue antagonist traveling the west coast in his big 1970 Chevy Suburban, hunting and killing kidnappers and rapists. Breech couldn’t be here.
With rising alarm, Hulley conducted a lengthy double-take of the coffee shop. Gone was the tidy suburbanized business with its lit glass food cases and soft beige and blue walls, replaced by a cramped, smaller, and darker place, an old home re-purposed as a cafe. It wasn’t that Breech was here; it was that he was there.
Breech strolled past his table like a spinning top losing energy. Although the man wore sunglasses, Hulley felt Breech rake him with the predatory blue eyes he’d seen with his mind too many times. Breech always thought he knew his quarry by the way they reacted to his scrutiny. The guilty stayed relaxed but the innocents were unnerved.
Slapping his coffee mug down, Hulley gulped down a lump that could’ve been a rock. He didn’t know what was going to happen or what had happened to him, but it looked like the next scene was beginning.
Sucking in a deep breath, he began typing. What else could a writer do?
Michael Seidel, writer 