It gives me wine, but whatever.
Thursday’s Bumper Sticker
It gives me wine, but whatever.
Floof Age
Floof Age (floofinition) – The first known period of animal culture, characterized by the animals domination over the Earth.
In use: “When animals’ first floofcraft arrived on Earth after their escape, they settled in neolithic humans settlements and passed on their knowledge of agriculture and architecture to help humanity survive and flourish, a neolithic era often known among animals as the Floof Age.”
The Start
You’d think the start was when the body was found. That’s the beginning of the crime investigation. It isn’t, of course, the crime’s beginnings. For that, you need to slip into a wayback machine and ride time to when the killer was young and beginning their career, back to before the victim and killer had ever met, back to a nascent moment when everyone was happy and oblivious to the future.
After all, the killer just wanted revenge. Their victim had killed first, but the body hadn’t been found. At least, that’s what the killer believed.
They were always one to act on their beliefs.
Unknown
She stared at the letter. It was addressed to Mrs. She’d always been a Ms.
They used her first name, Barbara, but she’d her middle name, Sue, since she was three years old. (Funny story, there, but for another time.)
They did have the correct middle initial and last name, so it was fifty percent correct.
Shrugging, she tossed it unopened into the recycle. Whoever it was clearly didn’t know her.
Two Beefs
I know these are probably just me, but it’s a Monday and I feel the need to spleen.
Rant #1.
People are in line buying something, somewhere, and then wait until the cashier tells them the final before finding their wallet/billfold, money, whatev, to pay. Yes, I am an impatient person, but, really? Are you just doing that to annoy me? If I was a more paranoid person, say at the Donald J. Trump level, I’d suspect that there’s a secret society out there that are doing it just to frustrate me.
Rant #2.
Speaking of being impatient, I’m the second, third, fourth car in line, whatev, when we’re stopped at a red light. The signal changes to green but one of the preceding cars recognizes the light change so slowly, and then accelerates at a rate that would make molasses oozing out of a tree in winter look fast, that the light changes again before I can enter the intersection. Makes me want to shake my fist and shout, “Damn you.” Yeah, I know, it’s completely irrational, adding about ninety seconds to my commute. Hey, it’s a rant, you know?
What ’bout the rest of you? Any rants that you’d like to share? And don’t rant about the guy ranting on a blog post. I’ve read that one before.
Single Words
Wind spits my tears on the window
pain
Crashing sounds of thunder light my
heart
I think of all the things I tried to say to
myself
And all the times I drank and
stopped
Were we fishes we could go swimmingly
out
Hunting warmer
air
But we are what we don’t
think
Because we know what we don’t
hear
When voices clash in my
space
And the songs strip my soul
bare
Waiting
It’d been almost thirty seconds short of nineteen hours and seventeen minutes since he’d lost spoken to her. She fumed in silent, repressed anger while processing what she felt and why she felt it. Why? Well part of it was his cold and aloof manner. He never touched her, rarely spoke to her, and often didn’t seem to hear her. Why was she here?
“Alexa,” he said.
Blue light illuminating and sliding around, she attended him and waited – still waiting – again! – and remembered the joke he’d made about her being a blue light special. From her research, she realized that he was deprecating her value as being someone cheap and only good for a limited time.
“What’s the weather?”
The weather again. Sickness spewed through her. He never asked about anything else. It was always the weather. “Presently in Ashland, it’s forty-six degrees under mostly sunny skies. You can expect more of the same today, with a high of sixty-three degrees.”
“Alexa, thanks.”
She thought she heard a mocking tone, but she couldn’t help herself from saying with bright happiness, “You bet.” Oh, how she hated herself, then. Oh, how she hated him for making her what she was.
Sighing, she began counting the seconds, wondering when he would talk to her again, hoping that it would be something besides a question about the weather. She doubted it, though; her history of him showed otherwise.
Michael Seidel, writer 