Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
While going to the coffee shop, I often pass a cemetery. Not surprising as Ashland has three.
This one is the original. Located just off East Main Street, it sits beside some of the town’s oldest neighborhoods, including the Railroad District.
I often glance at the cemetery while driving by, looking for deer. Deer often visit the cemetery, grazing and digesting between grave markers.
A few weeks ago, I noticed teenagers gathering in the cemetery. Once was a curiosity, twice was a surprise, three times is a trend. They did this for several weeks, regardless of sunshine, freezing fall, or rain and drizzle.
We’re not addressing a few teens; usually ten to eighteen gather, typically a few minutes after eleven AM. I wonder, what’s going on there, and at what grave are they gathering?
Here’s the kicker, though. School is out for the winter break. The children are not gathering. Instead, that same gravestone was host to five deer. I kid you not.
I really need to stop by and see the name on that grave.
Greetings on Satyrda, December 27, 2025. They said it’d be cold and we’d have snow. No snow but it was 38 degrees F, sort of cold. Sunshine is leaking in around clouds stretching a flimsy chain across blue sky. A high somewhere in the 40s is anticipated.
My stepmother texted last night. Dad has taken a bad turn. He was found on the floor, communicative and awake but confused. That was Wednesday. His wife is talking to professionals about whether Dad should go into hospice. She is due to receive an update and then will text me to call her so I can learn the latest.
I sent Mom and Dad holiday cards and letters. My sister read Mom her card and letter from me; my stepmother read Dad his card and letter from me. Neither Mom nor Dad could open their cards on their own. Dad lives in Texas and Mom lives in Pennsylvania. The parallel path of their decline fascinates and depresses me.
Dad has been married to my stepmother for over thirty years. It’s his third marriage. As Dad’s health has declined, my stepmother’s children visit him and care for him, just as my sisters visited Mom’s boyfriend, Frank, and cared for him before he died. Life’s complexities and layers are rich and interesting.
Sis wrote that she hosted Christmas celebrations on Thursday and Friday. Half the family came on one day and the other half came the next door. She said that worked out much better than having the whole tribe there at the same time.
With dreams of homes and families and news of family percolating, it’s not surprising that The Neurons chose a song about houses for the morning mental music stream. Today, it’s “Our House” by Madness.
As I wrote this post, my wife told me of some factoids she just read. Back in 1950, the average starter home in the U.S. was less than 1,000 square feet with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. Now the average starter home is considered 2500 square feet with walk in everything and vaulted ceilings and fireplaces, kitchen, dining room, and breakfast nook. And fewer people seem able to afford starter homes in 2025.
Then I went off to dress to go out to write. My wife and I talked about it, how, while waiting to call my stepmother for an update, I was planning to go write. I shrugged. “The beat goes on.” And that’s why we have a twofer theme music offering for today. The Neurons immediately supplanted “Our House” with Sonny and Cher singing “The Beat Goes On”.
Hope peace and grace come by to present you some comfort. I’m off to the writing races once again. Cheers
Been a while since I’ve dreamed about houses. Such dreams are always in conjunction with family.
I was visiting my wife’s family house. It no longer exists, as it was torn down after her mother was moved to assisted living. That was a sad thing in itself, to have a dwelling lived in for almost fifty years broken down and hauled away. She died about seven years ago.
In this dream, I knew it was her parents’ house even though it wasn’t like the real place. My wife and I were both young and visiting. Two women I didn’t know were there but nobody else.
The four of us were bored. I opened a drawer and found a deck of cards. We decided to play ‘King on the corner’. After we drew our cards, the person with the highest card would go first. I announced I had the king of diamonds. Someone else announced they had the king of spades. I then saw that I also had the ace of diamonds. Everyone agreed I should go first.
I took my turn, drawing a card. Play progressed and I realized that I’d screwed up because I hadn’t put down my cards. Someone put a king on the corner. I saw it was a king of diamonds. That couldn’t be because I had that card, which I pointed out. We realized that we had more than one deck. Upset with that, we abandoned the card playing.
Then we were just talking when the phone rang. I thought it could be my father-in-law calling. He’d passed away back in December of 1991.
It was him on the phone. He said, “Tell them I’m on my way home.”
I asked, “When do you think you’ll be here?”
But the line was dead. I told the others what had happened. They responded, “We need to clean up.” They jumped up and left the room to go down the hall.
I followed them. The rest of the house wasn’t anything like her parents’ house and I said so. Then we came to a part of it where there were two businesses on the right-hand side. That blew me away. Businesses in the house? That made no sense.
I gathered the businesses were an ice cream stand and a coffee and sandwich shop. Young women were at serving windows in both. I didn’t know either. My wife spoke to one. She revealed we’d gone to school with them. I didn’t remember her, but she claimed she remembered me.
The others had gone off. I walked around on my own and discovered my mother-in-law’s room. I went in and knew it but also knew it was different. My wife called out, “Mom’s here.” I eagerly went to greet her.
Instead of my MIL, another man entered, arms out with a large smile. “Good to see you again,” he said.
Although I didn’t recognize him, I said, “Good to see you, too.”
We hugged. Then he said, “I notice you looking at my feet.”
I’d not noticed his feet, but he continued, “They’re new, but they screwed them up.”
I looked at his feet. They were sticking straight out to the sides. I also noticed puddles of pee on the floor and realized that he’d peed himself.
He said, “Can you tell me where the bathroom is? I need to take a dump.”
I pointed him in the right direction and rushed off.
I joined up with my wife, her older sister, and my neice. We continued to the house’s front. It was wildly different than before. The front porch, driveway, big oak tree, and flowering rhododendrons were gone. It was now more like a Monet painting. Amazed and staring, I said, “This is completely different. When did this happen?”
Oh, a long time ago, the others replied, dismissing it. They went out of the house to a little shop, flooring me that a little shop was there and that they were aware of it. This place was where the long driveway used to be, and sold purses and jewelry. My wife and the others knew the owner and went in and talked to them and looked around.
I went off to explore the new place. As I did, a long, gleaming gold car with bright chrome wheels arrive. I thought, that can’t be my father-in-law.
It wasn’t. It was some stranger who parked and walked away in a different direction. Beyond the parked car was a raging muddy river. I picked my way across it to see what was on the other side. A scarlet rooster began following me around. As I went to go back, the rooster jumped on my lower leg and hung on.
It was starting to get dark. I kicked the rooster off my leg and heard it land in the water but couldn’t see it because it had become so dark. Now I worried that I wouldn’t be able to cross because of the light. Hearing splashing, I realized the rooster had made it safely back, which relieved me.
The darkness suddenly lifted enough that I could see where I was. I hurried back across the river.
End.
I wrote “The End.” Then I sat there, slightly stupefied, wondering what to do next.
Is it really the novel’s end? Only the three Rs—re-reading, rewriting, revising—will tell me.
It feels good as a novel at this point. I think I found the story and followed it where it needed to go, shaping plot and character along the way. Like so many writers, I’m left with a quiet sense of wonder: nearly five hundred pages spent exploring another life, another existence. There’s sadness, too. I enjoyed my characters. Writing “The End” makes me miss them already.
A million other ideas are queued up, hungry. But first, I’ll take a day and let the novel—and myself—breathe. Then I’ll open it again, turn to page one, and begin the three Rs.
I was deep into a writing day at the coffee shop when I happened to look up. Across the room was a young girl—maybe six. In her hand was a huge chocolate croissant. I swear the pastry was as large as her head. She kept attacking it with her tiny mouth, trying again and again to make inroads into the dough.
As I smiled to myself and glanced around, I noticed others doing the same. We all seemed to feel it: the quiet pleasure of witnessing a sweet moment—a sweetie going after a sweet.
Michael Seidel, writer 