Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
He’d known Taylor for a while and knew he had a son. Now he was meeting him for the first time.
Son was taller than father, but much more slender and quieter. Son was also about half of Dad’s sixty-five years. The years count for a lot.
Observing the son, he wondered and asked him, “Are you like your mother?”
Son replied, “God, I hope not.”
Conversations erupted, and the questions that erupted from that answer couldn’t raised.
There it is, the bolt informing you that, holy shit, it’s almost December. December begins this Saturday.
If you’re like me — and I hope you’re not — you’re agog with amazement that November is almost empty. Hell, 2018 has almost spent its calendar, and here I am, still dragging myself forward.
But, you know, take the positive, I am moving forward. It doesn’t go as fast or smoothly as desired, dreamed, or hoped for, but I keep creeping forward.
What will the end of November mean? Well, in some ways, it means a re-assessment. It means, for me, an agnostic in America, enduring the holidays, which sometimes means enjoying myself, respecting others’ beliefs and traditions, and otherwise, doing what I do, except there’s more food and music.
Likewise, the end of the year means some searching, but I search almost every day, looking for truth, hope, justice, luck, love, something to eat, answers for puzzling questions, etc. So, really, nothing, but because of where I live and who I am, everything.
Yes, it’s a conundrum. It’s a good word, conundrum.
I don’t know what was up with the gingerbun this morning, a.k.a., the orange feline floof known as Papi, but also called Meep (in appreciation of the meeping sound he uses for a meow).
I’d fed him and let him out of the house. An hour later, I checked on him to see if he wanted in. He wasn’t around the back door. As I headed for the front door, I thought I heard a thump – perhaps the sound of a cat whacking the door with his paw – at the back door, so I reversed course. Yes, there he sat, waiting for the door to open.
So, you know, I did.
Phlooommm, a bright orange streak galloped past me. In wonder, I turned and watched him make a circuit of the living room, dining room, and kitchen, come back to me, and stop, looking up at me with his tail standing tall. I swear he was grinning. As I closed the door, I said, “Aren’t you in high spirits?”
Phlooommm, Papi bolted away, leaping up onto dining room chairs and off, sprinting past Tucker, the house lord, spinning on the hardwood floor, and then racing back to me to slam to a grinning halt in front of me again.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Yes, he replied, tail up, rubbing against my leg. Then, phlooommm, he flashed away.
I love dipping. Not snuff. No. Tried it once, didn’t like it. I like dipping cookies, doughnuts, and toast into tea, hot chocolate, or chocolate milk, and coffee. I also dip buffalo wings into sauces, and chips and crackers into dips. I’ve dipped things in beer, like pretzels, but I’ve not been impressed with the results. That’s life. And of course, I’ve skinny-dipped. I really liked doing that, especially the time I did it in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Sicily.
Some materials are better for dipping into coffee or tea than others. Doughnuts make for damn fine dipping, IMO. Today’s cookie, a gluten-free, vegan, GMO-free, locally baked chocolate ship affair, is a little dry. Not ideal, because that dryness contributes to the dipping drawback. Dipping a cookie into my coffee, I’m aware that some is crumbling into the coffee. This produces a bottom situation called dipping dredge. That’s the soaked stuff that remains when the beverage is almost gone.
I’m not a fan of the dipping dredge. However, I’m not one to leave coffee behind. Thus, all I can do is suck it up.
Literally.
I was having drinks with a friend the other night. Frank is fully twenty-three years older than me, putting him in his mid-eighties. A retired professor and writer, he’s good company.
So it wasn’t surprising that we were ribbing each other and laughing when he suddenly sneezed and loudly farted. My reaction was to ask, “Frank, are you all right?”
“You notice that?” he said. “I did four things simultaneously.”
Before I could think more or speak, he said, “I laughed, sneezed, farted, and peed all at the same time. Now that’s multi-tasking.” Standing, he added, “Excuse me. I need to go to the restroom.”
Others call it Cyber Monday, but I call it Writing Monday.
Writing Monday follows Writing Sunday. It’s the day before Writing Tuesday, and comes two days after Writing Saturday. Writing Friday precedes Writing Saturday, and falls after Writing Thursday, and two days after Writing Wednesday Eve.
Sometimes, to make it easier to say and follow, I call Writing Monday, Monday.
Likewise, every day is Coffee Day, but I call the days by their ISO 8601 standard week days, because the coffee is implied. Hell, in many cases, it’s expected. What’s a Monday without coffee?
As I have a full cuppa of hot java at hand, it’s time to edit and write like crazy, at least one more time.
Feeling mad as a hatter, Skip bought a brand spanking new car. To his friends, it was a bolt out of the blue.
Checking it out, Clyde said, “What’s the four-one-one, Skip?”
“Yes,” Penelope said. “What, d’yer win the booby prize? Give us the straight skinny.”
“It’s my new jalopy,” Skip said, at one fell swoop gaining jaundiced looks. “I bought it, cash on the nail. I could only afford it by the skin of my teeth.”
Milly said, “You’re such a crack pot. Did you have to cook the books?”
“To coin a phrase, I think it’s a blot on the landscape,” Parnell said. “It’s the mutts’ nuts.”
Nodding, Tucker said, “Right on. Did you forget to use your loaf, Skip?”
“What’s with the third degree?” Skip wondered as Hester said, “I don’t want to be a wet blanket, but gag me with a spoon.”
“Fer sure, you’re barking mad, Skip,” Ethel said as Horatio said, “You’re such an airhead, Skipper. You bought a pig in the poke.”
Beaming, Skip replied, “Well, I think it’s the cat’s pajamas. It’s really groovy.”
Tucker rose. “That’s all well and good, but I need to catch some zzzs. I’m gonna skate.” Looking at Skip, he said, “Drop a dime when you’ve come back to earth, space cadet.”
“Word,” Ethel agreed as Clyde said, “Peace out,” and Milly said, “Mic drop.”
Watching his friends troop away, Skip said, “Well, I didn’t mean to upset the apple cart.” Leaning back in front of his ride, he took a selfie. “I’ll share it on the Cloud, and Facebook it, the whole shebang. Then, when people Google me, they’ll see my wheels.”
But first, he texted it to himself, and then went to veg out, pleased as punch. It was a new day, and the sky was the limit.
He ran ahead with his tail up, as I’ve so often seen him do.
Then, stopping, he looked back and meowed, as I’ve often witnessed him do.
Smiling, I waved and called his name. He turned and went on.
Still smiling, I turned aside.
And I went on, too.
As I was dressing today, I decided to wear brown shoes.
Like many people — not — my shoes choice drives my attire. As my grandmother used to say, “Start at the feet, and dress up.” (She didn’t.)
Season, weather, and plans drive my shoe choice. I’ve found that I’m uncomfortable in sandals in the fall and winter, usually because the day starts out nippy and doesn’t get warm. I’m not much of a sandal person anyway.
Which takes me to the brown shoes.
Once I decided to wear brown shoes, the pants and shirt were easy, since it was cool, forty degrees, sunny, with sixty-two degrees anticipated as the high. Since I was wearing brown shoes, I needed a brown belt, right?
Time out. Wait. Hang on.
Why did I need a brown belt?
Because that’s how I’ve been socialized, normalized, and conditioned. Brown shoes, brown belt. I heard it from Mom, wife, girlfriends, and others. It’s like, why? WTF difference does it make?
So guess what this rebel did?
If you guessed that I put on black shoes and a black belt, you’re wrong. I’m wearing a black belt with brown shoes.
Yeah, pretty far out, right?
I’m such a rebel.
He doesn’t like peas, and turns them down — of course. Who eats food that they don’t like, except children being forced to do so by parents, guardians, and caretakers? Or sick people being forced to eat something cuz it’s good for them? Or starving people who can’t be choosers? Okay, we’ll stipulate that exemptions exist.
People often try to force them on them, as if some loop will suddenly change. He admits, only to himself, that, yes, it’s possible some loop will suddenly change, but to get to that point, he must eat peas, and he doesn’t wanna.
Others ask, why don’t you like peas? As if every decision stand on foundations of logic. As if he has a choice about everything. As if he fully understands the logic of why he doesn’t like peas, or he knows the fulcrum of the moment when he and peas parted ways — if they’d ever been together in the first place.
When asked about his refusal to eat peas, peas said, “Who?” And laughed.
Michael Seidel, writer 