Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Furocious (floofinition) – An animal who acts or appears intimidating but is very friendly and gets along with everyone.
In use: “The dog looked like something out of Game of Thrones, huge, black, wolfish, with sharp golden eyes, but loved people and animals, especially young and sick animals, eagerly taking care of and watching over them.”
Sometimes when he glances in the mirror, he sees his younger self in there grinning. “Looks like you made it, old man,” the kid says.
He scoffs, “Yeah, despite all your efforts to kill us.”
They were watching a television show. A body landed on the cement behind an FBI agent. The agent was on a cell. The landing body thudded. She flinched and looked back.
His wife said, “That’s not believable. She didn’t even duck.”
“That’s a choice the creative team makes as part of the storytelling. How does the character react to something like that? Are they calm and unfazed or do they freak? That’s part of the show’s tenure and the series’ atmosphere. I make decisions like that all the time when I’m writing, trying to decide how someone reacts and keep them true to the story and character.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
Well, it was important to him.
Hearing the pursuit, we ran hard. “In here,” Pretzel shouted on my left. I twisted, planted my foot and made the cut, following him into a small path.
We crowded in panting like the sprinters we’d been. “What is this?” Maylie asked.
“I think it’s a time machine,” C-Jean said.
Don’t know about the rest but I did a mental, oh shit. “Don’t touch anything. We got to get out of here.”
“Oops,” Pharslei said.
The machine vibrated for two seconds. Ping, it said, like we were a done nuked meal.
“Where are we?” Maylie asked.
“Not where,” Pretzel said. “When. Time machine, itz. When are we?”
Sunday, April 23, 2016, it said. “Shit,” someone said.
The numbers blinked. April 20, 1623. Still Sunday. “I’m going to go see,” Pretzel announced.
“No,” I said, “Hold up.” That was the last I saw of him, though, going out that door.
Last I saw of any of them. Machine now said, April 16, 2023.
I left the booth. It vanished behind me. Tepid sunshine washed my face. Mostly I saw cloud layering like stacked grays. Still seemed like Ashlandia’s green deep valley, at least.
The Neurons have filled the morning mental music stream with “Where Have All the Good Times Gone”. Went with the Kinks’ original song from ’65. Fit with my state of mind. Shopping this morning, it seemed like such a dirge. Everyone shopper I eyed semed to be thinking, “I wish I was anywhere else.” Shopping has never been a leisure pursuit for me but it kicked my thinking down a memory path which lodged up against the question, where have all the good times gone? Follow up was, what constituted a good time?
Stay pos. I know, sometimes it’s touch. Feels like the world is on your shoulders, and it’s putting on more weight every second. Coffee helps me. Coffee; it’s what’s for breakfast.
Here’s the music. Cheers
Honeyfloof – (floofinition) – An especially sweet animal.
In use: “Depite a pugilistic nom de floof, Rocky was a honeyfloof, always making friends, no matter what critter he meant. Except flies. They were his one weakness.”
She sat at a coffee shop table a dozen feet away, alone, attractive, maybe thirty, so he watched, a voyeur.
She probably knew but didn’t look. Setting her small black purse down, she opened it and took out a phone. An Apple laptop followed.
He gawked. Purse that small, little circular thing with a gold chain, couldn’t hold anything that big. That purse was like a TARDIS.
She drew out a power cord. A hardback book followed. Bottle of water.
No way, he told himself, no way. All that stuff from that purse wasn’t possible, and yet, he knew what he saw.
Looking up, she gazed at him with electric blue eyes and smiled.
Like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Michael Seidel, writer 