Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I picture April showers of stars at night,
of singing people and loving sights.
Hopes of April showers of good luck,
keep me going when I feel stuck.
I remember April showers of another time,
when I was young and thought the world would be mine.
I want for April showers when people are less of a dick,
where we help each other
and stop being angry and sick.
She used love and hate extensively. “I love pizza.” “I hate peas.” “I love Ricky Gervais.” “I hate heavy metal.”
He couldn’t remember her saying that she liked something. It always seemed like either love or hate. They seemed like narrow borders on a broad wasteland.
Seeing a stream of ants on the picnic table, Brett began crushing them with his thumb, smiling as he did.
The guy he didn’t know — there were a lot of them at this company picnic — came by and stopped, looking down, sunglasses mirroring the scene in shiny black. “What’re you doing?”
Brett thought it was obvious so he nuzzled a cold beer for a contemplative minute. “Killing ants. They’re invading the picnic. I’m saving the picnic.” He chortled. He was like a superhero.
“Don’t you know that every small creature you kill breeds a new cancer cell in you?”
Squelching his alarm, Brett snorted. “Bullshit. You made that up.” He was ready to stand up and punch the guy. How’d he know about his cancer? He’d just been told last Thursday. He hadn’t told anyone else yet.
“No, I recognized it and spoke it for you. Sorry about your cancer but you brought it on yourself.” He walked off.
Brett said, “Wait. That’s not fair. No one ever told me.”
The other turned to Brett but kept walking backward. “The ants didn’t think it was fair, either.” Pivoting, he strode away, leaving Brett to stare at the ants and wonder.
They — you know who they are — are always talking about how closely we’re connected. Here’s close for you. You cough from your chest, spewing out air, phlegm, and sputum, and at the same time, you fart, and a little urine squirts out of your urethra.
That’s connected.
I sat down on the toilet to do my morning thing. Instantly one of the three household cats graced me with his attention. One always does. Should I get in there and close the door before one arrives, a pitiful protest begins outside the door.
Boo wound himself back and forth against my legs while purring, meowing, and tossing glances at me. I said, “Will I never be allowed to do my business at home without one of you helping me? It’s irritating sometimes, you know. How would you like it if I petted you while you were in the litter box doing your business?”
I swear that his purr when up twenty decibels.
“What are your goals today?”
It was the female without an accent asking. Accents and the apparent sexes their voices displayed were the only way of identifying the daily taskmasters. Identifying was a weak expression, as they remained nameless and without form.
He scratched and swallowed. He needed to get up and drink water but also pee. Was that ironic? No, coincident.
Goals. “I want to get up and pee.” That would get him no points but they didn’t remonstrate him. Still, sharp past responses made him moderate his approach.
“Write, of course,” he said.
“You always do that,” she said.
Did he imagine that she sighed? “Still counts,” he said.
Silence answered. They weren’t pleased.
He said, “Wash, vacuum, and gas the cars.”
A male overseer said, “Good,” with boredom as thick as flies on shit.
“Yard work.”
“Hmmm.”
“Finish reading a book.”
“Oh.” The female. “What book?”
“Donna Leon, The Waters of Eternal Youth”.
“Very good.” Happiness seemed to shower him. “That’s a good goal. Good luck.”
He was released. Opening his eyes, he sat up. Of all that he’d said, what would most count was reading the book. That was his number one priority. He was hungry and needed enough points to get a decent meal. He sensed that if he failed to read the book, they’d punish him.
Draining his bladder in the water closet, he snorted and chortled. His mind was a strange overseer.
embalmed with denigration
drowning in clichés
paralyzed with expectations
frustrated by delays
harpooned with envy
mesmerized by guilt
sucked into disappointment
sunken in the silt
riding all the waves
hoping in belief
searching for the way
getting stuck on a beach
Failing and rising, you select a place in the curl and fall on your ass, get back up and try again
hunting balance, trying to keep the ride going or find another one
but the winds die and fall, and the seas grow tranquil
leaving you becalmed and lost
you can wait for the next wave or you can paddle out to meet them
pushing yourself to find a wave to ride
failing and rising, paddling and jumping up, striving to get your balance and keep riding
crashing and going under, afraid that you’ll never come up again
getting up and trying again
riding in search of a beginning
and end
I’m fighting waste and ageism wherever I find it and have realized an amendment is in order.
I think everyone is familiar with the five-second rule. To ensure we’re addressing the same rule, the five-second rule states that food items dropped on the floor can still be consumed if they can be retrieved before five seconds expire.
This discriminates against older people. Our elders can often encounter problems bending over and picking things up. Hell, just noticing that they dropped something can take several seconds.
Therefore, I’m proposing an amendment to the five-second rule. Individuals over fifty-five years of age will be allotted one extra second to the five-second-rule.
Examples: a person of sixty years of age will have an additional five seconds. That gives them ten seconds to notice they dropped food, find it, pick it up, and eat it. Someone who is seventy will have an extra fifteen seconds (twenty in total).
Of course, if you’re over one hundred, you can take all the time you want, sugar.
The floor is open for discussion.
Done for the day, he packed up and walked toward the front door. Seeing Gwen, he veered toward her. Looking up, she said, “Hi, how’re ya?”
“Good.” He stopped at Gwen’s table. “You?”
“The sun’s mostly shining, it’s mostly warm, so I’m good.”
“How’s your car search?”
“Great.” She looked tired around her mouth and her eyes but Gwen grinned. “I was driving down Phoenix Avenue yesterday afternoon. I was thinking of a gold Toyota Camry, and when I stopped at the red light, I looked to the left, and there was a gold Camry for sale in an empty lot on the corner.”
“Wow.”
“I turned and went in there. The owner had just parked it. He’d literally just put it up for sale and was going to go home and post it to eBay. He wanted two thousand. He’s a mechanic and always took care of the car and had all the receipts, and he’d redone the interior.”
“Sounds good.”
“Then, when I was talking to him, he said he was asking two thousand but he liked me so he’d let it go to me for fourteen hundred.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m so pleased that I manifested that for myself. I had a need and I manifested it. And it has a name. He calls the car Goldie.” She showed him a picture of a clean but older gold Camry.
“Good for you, I’m happy for you,” he said. “Congratulations.” As she smiled at him, he said, “I have to go now.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Congratulations again.”
“Thanks.”
“See you later. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He walked out into the sunlight and paused to think about the conversation, smiling as he realized that Journey’s song, “Don’t Stop Believin'”, had been playing in the background during their conversation.
Inhaling, he looked up at the sun. It was a beautiful day, a little chilly but boldly sunny. Spreading his wings, he rose into the sky and disappeared.
Michael Seidel, writer 