Onomatofloof (floofinition) – Naming animals for the sounds that they make.
In use: “Within an hour, by onomatofloof, the rescue kittens became Chirrup, Hiss, Quack, and Spit.”
Thursday’s Bumper Sticker
It’s a license plate that the state doesn’t like, but I nominate it for a bumper sticker.
Sunfloof
Sunfloof (floofinition) – Animals who enjoy lazing, lounging, or sleeping in pools of sunshine, move with the sun across spaces, or sit with their face to the sun.
In use: “Five cats and three dogs, and all were dedicated sunfloofs, moving across the patio to remain in the sun, as if they’d cease to be without sunshine.”
Spoiled
I know it’s another Princess and the Pea complaint, but don’t you hate it when the ‘net is so slow that you can click a link, go make a cuppa coffee, drink half of it, select new music, peruse the newspaper, and then return to the computer in time to see the page load?
These things always trigger corollary suspicions: is it just my provider, or this location, a flawed router or modem, a computer issue, DDoS attack or virus, the web site, the browser…?
Bah. Too damned spoiled, aren’t I?
Unfloofable
Unfloofable (floofinition) – Animal behavior marked by supreme self-confidence, surety, and self-control.
In use: “The ginger boys were in a vet’s office for their check-ups after a thirty minute car ride, but purring and unfloofable, they looked as if they sat on their own porch, surveying their domain.”
Floofistry
Floofistry (floofinition) – A housepet’s subtly deceptive reasoning, persuasion, or argumentation, usually conveyed by using big eyes, purring, or soft whining.
In use: “When he got his sandwich, he knew he’d succumb to his pet’s floofistry, so, planning ahead, he made two additional plates with lunch meat on it – one for the cat, and one for the dog.”
Floofper
Floofper (floofinition) – An embarrassing (and often comical) mistake done by a pet.
In use: “The dog rushed in, tried to stop, and slid across the hardwood floor, crashing into the a bookcase, sending books flying. Ignoring the floofper, he stood off, shook himself off, trotted to the other side of the room and sat down as if nothing had happened.”
Cannafloofbidiol (CFD)
Cannafloofbidiol (CFD) (floofinition) – A chemical reaction induced by talking, petting, or being with animals, useful for reducing people’s anxiety and stress, with end results often said to be similar to ingesting or inhaling CBD.
In use: “She wanted a glass of wine, or even some marijuana to relax, but first Louise had to sit and let her brain empty. As soon as she did, her lab curled up with her. Within minutes of talking to the lab and stroking her fur, the cannafloofbidiol had mellowed Louise to the point that anything else seemed redundant.”
Write
Picking up his computer bag, he called, “I’m off. See you later.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Have a good write.”
Closing the door, he headed out for the street and thought, She turned write into a noun. That isn’t right.
Swinging has bag onto his back, he thought, I hope I have a good write. This week’s been strong with good writes.
Striding down the street and looking up at the sky, he thought, I hope she didn’t jinx me.
Paused
Hulley paused from writing his novel. He’d seen and finished a long scene, all praise the muses. Once that was done, he needed to collect where he was and what was to be done.
Scanning the other patrons and front door, he picked up his coffee. Half remained, but cold as iced-tea. Time? Been here sixty-five minutes. Sipping the coffee, he continued peering around, debating options, choices, and plans. Plenty of time remained but his writing energy seemed as spent as a summer storm. It’d been a good day of writing, but —
His eyes picked up on the opening front door, and then his brain shouted, “Holy shit.” His brain’s declaration slammed the rest of his being into shocked stillness. Through the front door came a pale white man, about six three, narrow-framed, with thin white hair and an ancient poets’ beard. He wobbled like he could be tipsy or suffering from a balance issue. Dressed in ragged, soiled denims on this ninety-plus day with a yellow Polo shirt, a Cubs hat, and aviator styled sunglasses, he didn’t fit in. Hulley gagged on recognition: Breech.
It couldn’t be Breech. He almost laughed at the suggestion. It was too freaking insane. Breech was his fucking character, star of the last scene, a gray-blue antagonist traveling the west coast in his big 1970 Chevy Suburban, hunting and killing kidnappers and rapists. Breech couldn’t be here.
With rising alarm, Hulley conducted a lengthy double-take of the coffee shop. Gone was the tidy suburbanized business with its lit glass food cases and soft beige and blue walls, replaced by a cramped, smaller, and darker place, an old home re-purposed as a cafe. It wasn’t that Breech was here; it was that he was there.
Breech strolled past his table like a spinning top losing energy. Although the man wore sunglasses, Hulley felt Breech rake him with the predatory blue eyes he’d seen with his mind too many times. Breech always thought he knew his quarry by the way they reacted to his scrutiny. The guilty stayed relaxed but the innocents were unnerved.
Slapping his coffee mug down, Hulley gulped down a lump that could’ve been a rock. He didn’t know what was going to happen or what had happened to him, but it looked like the next scene was beginning.
Sucking in a deep breath, he began typing. What else could a writer do?
Michael Seidel, writer 