Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
don’t judge me wit crayons
or color me
on Insta
Face
tweet
you adult you
e’s and blue screens
ceilings and fans
t.v. and sports
song and dance
coming and going
in
fan-tah-sy
compa-tish
shun
hiddin by a fence
you see there
i see it
don’t
you correct my words
for-gettin’
’bout my
e’s and blue screens
ceilings and fans
t.v. and sports
song and dance
coming and going
in
fan-tah-sy
compa-tish
shun
He considered it a sign of his life that this shit happened.
First, he’d outlived his friends and family. Said good-bye to all of them. By the time some died, they’d noticed that his hair remained shiny and full, wrinkles didn’t mar his skin, and that he remained energetic and athletic as a twenty-year-old. “Good genes,” he always said, even to his parents and siblings. “Why didn’t we get those genes?” they wanted to know. “Good question,” he replied.
Now, they were alive again, not because of his good genes, but because he’d awakened back in time. “Impossible,” he told himself.
But there they were. He wondered if he’d have to say good-bye to them again, or would they finally watch him pass away.
Either way, it could be awkward.
I smell a pipe and remember Dad.
Cigars remind me of my smoking fad.
Mother dear arises with sights of Salems and Kools.
Pall Malls and Marlboros put me in the office with chain-smoking fools.
But marijuana rolls me back in time
to my youth, when a hazy high was sublime.
Mr Gander rolled into the noisy sports bar, grunting and waving at others while signalling for a PBR. As Gander’s ample weight found a stool, Tilly observed that Gander seemed down.
“The wife.” Gander pointed his eyes at the TV and sampled his beer’s head.
“What ’bout ‘er?”
“Nothin’. I have little complaints ’bout ‘er. They’re so small, you could say they’re shards of complaints.”
“You ever tell ‘er ’bout ’em? Maybe that’d help.”
“Naw, man. If I tell ‘er my complaints ’bout ‘er, she’ll tell me her complaints ’bout me.” Gander sipped his beer. “Who wants to hear that crap?”
I wish agents submitted to my will, but they’re impressively resilient.
That’s not what I’m writing ’bout, as you know. I’m addressin’ the other sort of submissions, the one that requires you to send agents your writing, seeking a pinkiehold on the path to traditional publishing, which, as we all know, also brings us fame, fortune, and immunity from ever doubting ourselves again.
Right?
As I’ve refined my submission process in this go-around, I’ve come to think of it as job-hunting. Instead of a novel or proposal, you’re submitting a resume when you’re job hunting.
They have other similarities.
You peruse every source you find for potential places to submit.
You submit as much as you can.
You wait and hope for positive responses.
You keep going until you’ve signed somewhere.
What ’bout you? How’d you approach it?
I received a Costco paper thingy in the mail yesterday, one of those things with thin but glossy pages stapled together that show, “Here’s what you can buy!”
I leafed through the leafs because I’m always looking for things to buy, when what do you think caught my eye?
Yes, that’s right, a smart toilet.
Offered by Ove, the description was pithy. They mentioned that it had memory and a remote control. I thought, WTH? Why would your toilet remember you? Does it say, this guy again, and turn on some air freshener? Or is it a matter of adjusting the toilet height and angle to suit your body for the best experience evacuating bowels? And what the heck was the remote control for?
These questions pushed me to search the net for answers. I found a promotional video so that I can share all of those things with you.
The smart toilet disappointed me in the end. While it was impressive on the surface and intrigued me about what it could do, I thought, what about a phone app for it, and voice control? Does it not interface with Siri or Alexa? I don’t know why you’d want to do any of that, but then, I’m not really sold on a remote control for my toilet.
Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised that the smart toilet has arrived. Smart dildos, smart thermostats, smart phones, and smart toothbrushes have been around for some time. Other smart inventions are arriving every day, like smart sex dolls and smart showers. Naturally, with all this smart stuff, concerns are raised about your smarts being hacked, resulting in unexpected problems. Besides someone else taking control of it, these smart devices are calling back home, reporting on what you’re doing.
It’s another reason to not get a smart appliance. Sooner or later, they’re gonna turn on you.
Lane Envy – anxiety and desire to be in a different lane, often associated with driving and shopping.
In use: “Seeing the other lane going much faster, lane envy struck, prompting him to contemplate moving, but he knew the shopping gods were playing a cruel joke on him. As soon as he changed lanes, this one would go faster, so he stood where he was and bridled his longing to go to another cashier.”
She’d thought about using a computer but decided that she didn’t want to. That would have been cumbersome to learn, as would changing her phone. The green wall phone with its rotary dial and long cord was sufficient.
She kept her old color console television, bought from Sears in 1969, because it still worked, so why buy a new one? She had to buy new furniture in 1969 because the old stuff fell apart, but once the gold and green brocade stuff she bought started falling apart, she kept it, even though the fabric was torn and worn, stuffing was coming out, and the frames were coming apart.
Her hair-style was unchanged from 1968, which is also when she started dying her hair brown, so she looked much the same in this century as she did the last. She loved Campbell’s tomato soup and had it almost every day for lunch with a grilled cheese sandwich using Kraft American Cheese Singles, along with a Heinz dill pickle. Her breakfast was Quaker Oats followed by two cups of Maxwell House coffee that she made in her old percolator.
Days were spent reading Dick Francis, Nancy Drew mysteries, or Agatha Christie while watching Fox News. In the evenings, she watched The Family Feud and The Price is Right followed by Murder, She Wrote, The Andy Griffith Show, The Big Valley, and Perry Mason. Once in a while, she watched a movie, like The Sound of Music. For treats, she ate Little Debbie Cakes.
Not much had changed in her life, and that made her happy. Being happy, she saw no reason to change.
“Keep the change,” he said, turning away from the cashier.
“You always say that,” his friend said as they walked away as the cashier put the coins into the tip jar and said, “Thank you, sir, your order will be right up.”
“Habit.” The other shrugged. “I don’t want change.”
“But it adds up.”
He was about to reply when his friend said, “Hey.”
As he turned, his friend flipped a silver coin at him. He caught it without thinking, mostly as protection to keep it from hitting his face. Within a second, he raised the coin and looked at it. Seeing it was a nineteen seventy-eight quarter, he said, “Fu — ”
Then he was gone.
Puzzled, his friend blinked at the empty space. He’d lost the thread on what he’d been doing. He’d had a quarter and he’d been thinking…something…
Rubbing his head, he tried to remember. There’d been something there, but where that something had been, it seemed like there was now a hole.
Sighing, he told himself, it’ll come back to him. He was getting old and forgetful, like his parents. Turning, he hunted for a table, sure that he’d forgotten something important, growing less certain that it would ever come back.
My wife made something really delicious for dinner this evening. Actually, we had it for lunch. We ate loads of it, along with bread, and then had big salads for dinner.
It’s the third time that she made it. I really can’t say more about it than that, except also that it smells fantastic. You can smell all the ____ and ____ ____. It’s incredible.
That’s really all I can say. She has this thing about me not bragging to other people about the food that she makes. She says that it builds up too much anticipation for it and then she worries that it won’t be good as people expect it to be because I bragged about it so much.
Like, for instance, take her __________ as an example. I loved it, and begged her to make it all the time. And she did. I had her make it for an office pot luck because I thought it was sooo goood. The people there agreed, so much so that they asked me to ask her to make it for several subsequent pot luck lunches. When we had guests, I always suggested that she make her__________. She often did, but then got angry because I’d ask the others, “Isn’t this great?”
That was just the one. There was also her ______, _______ ______, and her ____ _______ with ____. They’re all tasty AND healthy. ____, too. She doesn’t make those things any more, either, because I bragged about them too much. At least, it’s been a long time since she’s made them.
So, I don’t want to jinx this by telling everything how great this thing is that she made, because I really like it, and I want to have it again in the future. But if you ever visit my house, maybe she’ll make it for dinner for you. Then you can see how good it is. Maybe she’ll make her ______ for dessert, too.
I’m sure you’d love them both. Just don’t tell her that I told you about them.
Michael Seidel, writer 