Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofabration (floofinition) – An animal’s activity to mark something by festivities or other deviation from routine.
In use: “After capturing a mouse and releasing it in the house, the cat began a floofabration, singing at the top of its lungs, “All praise the mighty hunter and the presents which he brings you, come see, come see, come see,” even though it was oh heavy snoring in the morning.”
Heavy snow fell. Watching it, he said, “Alexa, will it snow in Ashland today?”
“Snow is not expected in Ashland.”
His wife joined him. “Alexa, is it snowing now?”
“It is not snowing in Ashland now.”
“Alexa, then what is that white stuff failing from the sky?”
“There are reports of a dusty white wet material falling in Oregon.”
They laughed. Alexa was trying to gaslight them again.
Nofloofphobia (floofinition) – When someone suffers fear or anxiety about not having the company of an animal.
In use: “The worse part of vacations was not being with his fur pals. Nofloofphobia inevitably struck as he worried about them being okay and missed their sweet interactions with him and one another.”
The floof spoke.
The man regarded the animal. “You want to go back out? You sure?”
The floof replied.
The man stood and followed the animal. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”
The animal veered to the kitchen and headed for the sink.
“Oh, you want water.” He filled the animal’s glass.
Water. Outside. The two words sound so similar in flooflish. It’s easy to mix them up.
It was on.
Emitting a small chirp, the little orange beast used maximum thrust, hitting top speed as he raced up the Dining Room Straight.
Reaching the Sofa Right, he demonstrated masterful control, twisting and accelerating with some spin, tailfishing as he scabbled for traction on the short hardwood floor Table Straight, then punched left at the Plant Stand. Into the Living Room Complex he flashed, moving left-right-left-right. A short burst carried him on the brief but celebrated Coffee Table Straight to the Back Door Hairpin.
Precisely he executed a narrow spinback by the magazine basket. Then it was back through the gears along the TV Straight, handling the transition from carpet to hardwood floor without a pause. Hard braking and sliding, he made the ninety-degree corner onto the Master Bedroom Straight. Up through the Door Kink he sped, diving under the bed.
Back out the other side of the bed he roared, out the door and down the Linen Closet Straight. The Dining Room Entrance’s hard right was managed with little loss of control. A final sprint for the Foyer start/finish line followed.
He pitted on the Entrance Rug. It’d been a good run, maybe one of the best ever.
He sat and washed in victory.
She brought me a small white plate.
Two dark pieces nestle on it. I stare at them, then shift the stare to her.
I had been smelling them since I came into the house after my coffee house writing session. Chocolate.
K is on a diet. Today is day 30. She is allowed to add one thing today. She added vegan honey to her breakfast amaranth. Now she waits three days to see if there’s a reaction. If a reaction — pain, a flare, stiffness — is experienced, that item is banned from her diet. Forever. Then she resets for a few days and adds another item. If no reaction is felt, she adds another item and waits three days. So it goes.
This means that she can’t eat what’s on the plate.
She’s hosting book club next month. The moderator opted for something lighter for March. Lessons in Chemistry. Bonnie Garmus. Kay is making vegan brownies studded with chocolate chips. These are vegan chips from Trader Joe’s. Vegan butter was used. This is a test batch. A Ghirardelli mix was used.
“Taste these,” she tells me. “Tell me what you think.”
She can’t have them. Diet. Two of the Ashlandians in the book club are vegan.
I force myself to eat a chewy, gooey vegan brownie.
“Wonderful chocolate taste. Not too sweet. Greasy,” I announce. That makes sense to her. There was something about the vegan butter melting and then measuring it again. She didn’t do that. “And they’re not done enough.”
“Five more minutes?”
“Maybe just three.”
She nods. She’ll make another test batch this week.
They go great with black coffee on a winting Ashlandia afternoon. An entire tray waits for me in the kitchen.
I’ll need to pace myself or it might be death by chocolate.
Michael Seidel, writer 