a bit of rain
a bit of snow
a little wind
a little sun
a splash of heat
a blanket of cold
just another southern Oregon day
Winter Pane
watery glass
shows what’s on the other side
making us linger
with wishes we could be warm
inside
Plenty of Us
Plenty of us are like most of us
trying to be like some of us
hoping to be one of us
just like a few of us
it just depends on the day
Some of Us
Some of us
are happy to get by
not really living
just hoping we don’t die
Most of Us
Most of us
live life on an edge
sure of the beginning
ambivalent about the end
A Few
a few of us live
life on a ledge
thinking we might fly
if we had wings
and the will to try
The Favor
The young, slender woman with short dark hair said, “Excuse me.”
Looking up from his Apple laptop, the man raised his bushy eyebrows. Seeing the woman, he adjusted his thick glasses and smiled. He noticed her when she sat. Yes, she was attractive, and looked fit, but she reminded him of his daughter. She would’ve been about the same age, had she lived. “Yes?”
“Can you do me a favor? I need to use the restroom. Would you mind watching my bag for me?”
“That bag?” The man pointed at the green bag on the table. “Is that the bag?”
“Yes, that’s the very one.”
“Okay, I’ll watch it. But what should I be watching it to do? Does it do tricks?”
The woman laughed. “Yes, sometimes it dances. I’ve seen it but nobody else has ever seen it, so you’d be really helping me if you watched my bag.”
“Well, a dancing bag, I certainly will keep an eye on it. I’ll keep an eagle eye on it. I’ll turn on my laptop’s video and record it, in case it starts dancing.”
Laughing again, the woman said, “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”
She headed to the restroom with the man watching, smiling after her. Beginning to return to his computer, he caught movement. Looking up, he gasped.
Her green bag was doing a jig on the table. As he gawked, the bag completed a spin move, then fell back and hopped up. As it danced more, he glanced around for signs of hidden cameras or other witnesses.
The restroom door opened. The bag flopped onto the table into its original position.
“Thank you,” the woman said, returning. “Did my bag dance for you?”
“Yes,” the man said. “It did dance. I wish I had recorded it. Your bag stood up and danced.”
Beginning to sit, the woman stared at him. As she said, “What,” he said, “Is this a joke? Am I on one of those prank shows like Candid Camera?”
“No, it’ s not a joke.” Picking up the green bag, the woman stepped closer to the man. “I thought you might — ” Her voice was low. “I need your help. Please come with me.”
Turning, she walked away, calling back over her shoulder, “Come on, hurry.”
Packing up his laptop, the man muttered, “Okay, okay, I will, I’m coming, but you have some explaining to do.” As he rushed after her, he muttered, “I should’ve never agreed to watch her bag.”
Warning Shot
It wasn’t as if he was doing this without meditation and forethought. A dangerous situation prevailed. This wasn’t just his opinion. He’d researched studies on the internet and sought validation by experts. It was only then that he formed his plan and executed it.
First, there was the gun, ammunition, and the ability to aim and fire it. Done in a thrice (an expression that he loved). Next he chose his location. Months of research were conducted. He wasn’t a marksman. A moving target wouldn’t work. Distance was also a premium.
It all came together on a bright and quiet Sunday morning. A guy driving a Prius rolled along, left hand holding his cell to his ear, dismissive of the person in the cross walk. Probably didn’t see them, too occupied with his cell phone. What was so damn important that he needed to drive and talk? Infuriating.
So it wasn’t hard to finally convince himself, do it. The blue car cruised toward him (a little over the speed limit, if he was to judge). He didn’t expect the Prius to stop at the sign. The driver nearly didn’t, but an elderly woman in an elderly green Subaru forced the issue (it was like God was helping him).
Stepping up to the Prius’ passenger window, he fired at the driver four times. Spinning around, he tucked the weapon into his pocket and walked away (calmly, at just over normal speed), defying his body’s urging to run.
Around a corner, he went into an alley where his vehicle was parked. Only then, after he’d gotten into the car, started it up, and driven it away, did celebrations begin.
He’d done it. Laughing, he hit his steering wheel. He didn’t know if he’d killed the man (a kill wasn’t required, the message was in the shooting), but he’d definitely hit him at least once.
Oh, the adrenaline, the feeling of exhilaration.
One down. More shootings were probably required before people got the message (most people were so stupid that they needed to be hit over the head). He’d send a letter to newspapers (that would take some doing to cover his tracks), explaining how and what he was doing. Talking on a cell phone while driving was dangerous. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was saving lives by sending a message.
Nodding to himself, he halted his car at the corner stop sign and watched a police car speed by, red and blue lights flashing, siren screaming. Even if caught and convicted, he was sure he’d be pardoned. He was absolutely certain that his President would approve of what he’d done, killing one to save many. Why, he was just like the police.
Smiling again, he decided on a change of plans. He was hungry.
Time to celebrate.
Michael Seidel, writer 