Sunday’s Theme Music

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

April 16, 2023 0

April 14, 2023 1

Honeyfloof

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.”

April 13, 2023 0

April 11, 2023 1

The Purse

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.

April 11, 2023 1

Monday’s Wandering Thought

Stripping down to shower, he tossed his dirty undies on the floor to be taken to the hamper. The cat immediately marched over, sniffed the garment, and sat down on it. A purr boomed out.

Liked he claimed a major prized.

April 10, 2023 1

An Old Friend

Night came with silence

But then there was a sound

Something cracking hard

Like a window coming down.

Atlas leaped to investigate

And then froze in the spot

It could be something dangerous

And that meant a lot.

But still he had a duty

To protect his furless folks

So he would do as needed

Because his duty was not a joke.

So boldy, inch by inch,

Atlas sniffed and advanced

Till he came to the danger

And finally could relax.

For it wasn’t a burglar

Nor a killer or a mouse

Just the ghost of an old friend, Titan,

A dog who once lived in the house.

April 10, 2023 0

Sunday’s Wandering Thought

He needed to iron a shirt. Short sleeve. Cotton. Button up.

Been so long since he’d ironed a shirt. Used to do it almost every day in the military and quite often when he was in marketing. New materials and different work activities and standards had lessened requirements to iron.

He was still using their thirty-year-old iron. Why not? It works. He figured smart irons have finally arrived, though what a smart iron would do, he doesn’t know. Probably robot irons have arrived, too, just give it the shirt and it’ll know what to do. But he had to manually do it, setting up the little board and then plying seams, collar, yoke, sleeves, and most treacherous of all for him, the placket with steam and heat to make it all look unwrinkled.

After all that, he didn’t wear the shirt. Oh, well. It’d be ready for next time.