Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Trump is attempting to withdraw the United States from the Paris Climate Accord. Some say, including lawmakers, say, “It doesn’t matter, God will save us.”
Better get started with your praying then, because where are you going to run to when the water is rising, and the rivers and seas are boiling? Here’s Nina Simone with her powerful rendition of “Sinnerman” to get things rolling.
Sinnerman, you ought to be praying.
Schadenfloof (definition): a Cattish German word for the pleasure a cat feels sometimes when witnessing the misfortunes of another.
Example: “Harmony felt great schadenfloof when her littermate/nemesis Una got in trouble for knocking everything off the human’s desk.”
Hat tip to Thomas Weaver for the contribution.
Floofervescent (definition): vivacious, energetic or lively feline.
In Use: “Quinn was normally a quiet, charming cat, but shake the treat bag and he became a floofervescent presence.”
Kitgo (definition): a very fast, energetic kitten or small cat.
In Use: “Onyx may have been ten years old, but she moved like a six-month-old kitgo, sprinting across the room, leaping up onto chairs and off again, before dashing down the hall to the bedroom.”
He permitted his small train of cars to scrub off speed until it was almost stopped, and then gently pressed the brake pedal, encouraging a full stop.
Because he’s cautious, he opened several surveillance systems. Cameras and ground radar went up, scanning the remnants of I-5. Nothing else is untoward in this wasteland, but he picked up the AK-47 and looked around, watching his rear view mirrors and cameras as the engine idled. Selecting neutral, he set the hand brake and observed.
One of the packages moved again. It’s something that was alive or remained close to alive, or a ploy to invite him to stop and investigate. The wreckage was mostly cleared here. Rust, decaying plastic and rubber, and vegetation cracking through the pavement attested that more than a few months have passed since this crash or battle took place. Something alive is out of place. Manipulating a camera, he focused on the two packages. They appeared human, maybe females, adults.
Debating options and running scenarios through his head, he drummed his fingers on the console. He’d felt like Noah, building this vehicle. Sometimes he thinks of it as the vehicle, but other times, he calls it his train, an engine without a track, towing five cars. The instructions and scheme to build it reached him through nocturnal visions. He rejected referring to them as dreams. They were too cogent for dreams. The project, as he called it, trying to keep it abstract, ended up consuming money, energy and relationships. His marriage had already terminated, Mom and Dad were dead, and the children were forging their own paths of mistakes and successes, so it was pretty easy to burn those ties.
The thing was, though, the visions had never explained why this was being built. It seemed incredibly ridiculous and impractical to him, this “land train,” an absurd expression, since trains ran on land. People kept after him about why he was building it. He couldn’t explain it, not wanting to explain those nocturnal visions, falling back to weakly saying, “It’s just a whim.” He knew they thought he was crazy, an opinion he’d shared most of his waking hours. Then the sierra slathered the spinning fan blades onto a new wreck of a world, and here he was, a man alone with two cats and a dog, traveling destroyed America.
That’s what must have been behind the nocturnal visions, right? Why else have him build this thing? He was impressed that something had reached out to him with such guidance, even though it also scared him shitless about his sanity. Okay, but now, here he was, alive and on the road as the rest of humanity, at least in America, as far as he could discern, completed the cycle, dust to dust.
Yet, two people on the road, apparently needing help, were before him. How did that fit? As he watched, one progressed through the jerking motion of standing, confirming, it seemed to be a woman, small and white. He pulled his binocular to his eyes for a better image. Swaying, she straightened her back and squared her shoulders. Stooping, she pushed and pulled the other one, also a woman, until she stirred and rose to her knees.
The nocturnal visions hadn’t included others. Yet, he’d always wondered why his train was five cars. It was overkill for one person. Cursing cowardice and indecisiveness, he checked the time and watched the two. Holding on to one another, they minced across the road with staggered steps. Only two in the afternoon, it would be hours before night. Hours before his nocturnal visions came, unless he could close his eyes and sleep now. But if he did, they could leave. They could die.
The vision had brought him here. Now he needed to decide who he was. None of the others remained. These were the first living people he’d seen since he left his home after the fall.
Maybe their vision had brought them here, to meet him. If so, shouldn’t they be looking for him? They seemed oblivious to his vigil, even though the engine’s rumble probably carried to them.
He didn’t have a choice. The vision had brought him here.
It was up to him to finish the vision.
Catainer (definition): any box, bag or suitcase deemed attractive for a cat to use as a nest, fort, or bed.
In Use: “Emptying the box, Debby set it aside, intending to recycle it, but Laser demonstrated another use, recycling it as her personal catainer.”
Dreamed of doing the dishes last night, along with being on a highway and trying to help others find their destination, and having a pair of fours and eights.
In the dishes dream, I was washing fine china in a gray plastic tub. The china had a pretty, delicate pink flower motif on them. The water in the tub was clean, warm and soapy. Filled to the brim, it was outside. There was a bit of crud on the china, so I was using a nylon pad to try to scrub them clean. That wasn’t working, so I went for a walk to find a better solution. While doing that, I eavesdropped on young people around the neighborhood. I became confused when a young woman called her dog, because his name was Michael, which is my name. Why is she calling me? We had a good laugh over it.
The highway dream featured a heavily traveled highway. I was in an open-air car, as most of us were. Small, the cars weren’t important and were barely noticed in the dream. I heard some others talking behind me. Realizing that they sought information on different topics and were lost, I understood that I could help them.
The dream became a little strange, then. Traffic started moving. I pulled off at a split where the congested highway headed into the desert. Traffic stopped behind me. As I hurried to explain to the others where to go, I flipped through scenes of information. None of it was technologically advanced. Some, for example, were flip-charts tied together by twine. Barely held together, the scenes came alive whenever I stopped on one. In this way, I tried to help them to the information they needed. But I was wrong about what they needed. One in particular was searching for information on whittling but I’d presented him with information on something else. I also kept getting distracted by other interesting pieces of information I saw. Then I noticed that the highway traffic was backing up. Knowing it was my fault, I apologized to the others and took off, seguing into the third dream.
In this final remembered dream, I was first shuffling cards, then looking at cards, and then being dealt cards. All I know is that I kept discovering that I had a pair of fours and eights. That same combination kept coming up, red fours and black eights, although I don’t recall the suites.
The dreams are enough to keep me wondering for the rest of the day.
Cathailing, cathail (definition): act of calling for a cat; the calls for a cat, usually for a feline that’s lost or not answering.
In Use: “Steph knew Minx was in the house. She was house cat, and no windows nor doors were open. So where was the little minx? She’d checked all her catspots and the little Siamese hadn’t answered her cathails. She had to choice but walk around and continue the cathailing until the little furball came out.”
Every feline is familiar with the legendary catspot. The catspot is the best locality for snoozing off the catnip in comfort. They can change with seasons and the sun’s angle, furniture arrangements, and visitors, but one will always be found and designated. Humans eventually find them, too, telling themselves, “I haven’t seen Jade all day. I wonder if she’s in a catspot?” Then they walk around the house, trying to think like a cat, to see where they’re sleeping.
We don’t know what happened. My S.O. was in bed in the M.B.R in the house’s rear and I was in the snug at the front when I heard her open the door and hurry out. She was talking but I couldn’t discern anything coherent. Knowing her, though, I followed.
She’d put on the back porch light. Growling and yowling, Meep was on the patio. He was holding up one paw. As we approached him, he put the paw down and tried to walk. That paw wouldn’t support.
From the forensics and investigation available – mostly the presence of Boo and the noises my wife heard – Meep and Boo fought, as they do too many times. Boo is bigger, older and a little damaged, but Meep is bold, spirited, and young ginger. He’d clearly been on the losing end.
We created a circle of peace around him so he could relax and calm down. My wife went back in while I, armed with a squirt gun to keep Boo and Quinn back, stood by Meep, talking in comforting tones. After about fifteen minutes, he’d relaxed sufficiently to lay down and wash the injured limb. I saw no blood. He seemed to be moving it normally. Again, though, he attempted to walk but limped.
Waiting longer, I saw an opportunity, picked him up and carried him into the house. After setting him down, I did a brief but closer examination. He was already walking around close to normal. I offered him food, and he ate with gusto.
The decision was arrived to keep him in the house in isolation for the night. He limped a little this morning but jumped around well. The thing is, cats are so good at masking their injuries and weaknesses and coping, they can fool you. So we continued keeping him in. What happened, exactly? We don’t know. We can speculate. We did. I wished once again that the cats all had cat cams mounted on them, or a drone was in orbit overhead, recording what happened. We don’t have those, so we remain frustrated by the unknown, and its results.
Funny, but that’s a good blurb for the novel in editing, “Incomplete States.”
Michael Seidel, writer 