Well, I’ll Be Damned
I read aloud.
“Hello, old man! If you’re reading this letter, then you made it: you’re 100 years old! Congratulations to you.
“Or, congratulations to me, I should say. I set you up for your success, right? Come on, give me credit. I’m the one who signed the contracts, took the money, made the payments.
“Yes, there are some downsides. You should be 100 years old but you’re probably not living on Earth. Part of the agreement, right? I have no idea which planet you ended up settling, either. That’s one reason why you’re getting a preserved paper letter. If you’re reading this, you remember all of this. It’ll be as real to you as it is to me. And you know all the details. Hell, biologically, you’re younger than me now, because they gave you a new body, assuming they lived up to their end of the agreement. You should now be 25 biologically, which, yes, you know. Yes, you’ll be another color; you won’t be white. Small price, right? They weren’t sure whether you would be blue or green. Said both of those were possible with our genes. Wish you could write me back and tell me.
“Hard to write this. I know things but you know them, too. But I write to think, to make sense of it all. I never expected the things to happen which did. The war. Getting frozen. Sent to storage in space, then returned to Earth. I mean, as you know, I know these things, but it’s all abstract to me. Happened to me but I wasn’t conscious of it. Not this version of — well, yeah, you know.”
I stopped reading then. I knew what the letter said. I just wrote it yesterday. Realizations were creeping up. I’m a slow thinker but I usually get there.
So I took in the shimmering individual standing before me. Gorgeous guy. Blue. Azure. Well built. So tall, his thick, glossy black hair brushed the room’s ceiling.
“You’re me,” I said. “But you don’t look anything like me.”
He snorted. “Yes, I know. I’ve seen myself and I see you now, along with the old photos of you. They gave me options to change my appearance and I took them.”
“I see.” I smiled.
“I mean, wouldn’t you?”
“I probably would. Well, I did, because you’re me and…anyway. So, you made it. I made it. We made it.”
“Oh, yes. It’s quite a future, so improved over this. And you wanted to know what color we’d be, so….” He shrugged.
“You came back to show me.”
He grinned. “Bingo. Well, mostly. I also came back to thank you.”
Stepping forward, he offered me his huge hand. “I don’t want to get mushy, but thank you. Thank you for having the fortitude to persevere. Thank you for the decisions you made and supporting the science. Thank you for trusting it.”
Setting the letter I’d written to my hundred-yead-old self onto the desk, I stood and shook his hand. “You’re welcome.”
Call Me Dwayne
Daily writing prompt
What is your middle name? Does it carry any special meaning/significance?
My first name is Michael. My middle name is Wayne.
But that isn’t what was planned.
“Why did you name me Michael Wayne?” I asked Mom. I was looking for a story about why those names were selected, thinking something inspired my name.”
“I didn’t,” Mom said. “Your father did.”
“What?”
“I’d just given birth and I was out of it. He filled out the paperwork and named you. That’s not what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“You were supposed to be Dwayne Richard.”
“Dwayne Richard? Why?” And also, “Rick’s name is Richard Dwayne.” That seemed like a weird part of the puzzle. Richard Dwayne is my cousin, born a month before me.
Mom nodded. “I told your Aunt Jean that I wanted to name you Dwayne Richard. She stole it and named her son Richard Dwayne.”
Wild. I later asked Dad, “Why’d you name me Michael Wayne?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mom said you did.”
“I named you what she told me to.”
“That’s not what she said.”
“She probably doesn’t remember. She was pretty out of it. Listen, you know your mother. Do you really think I wouldn’t do exactly what she told me to do?”
I never got any satisfying reason for why my middle or first name was chosen. It’s just is what it is.
Sattida’s Wandering Thoughts
A man entered the coffee shop. Not paying much attention to him, I don’t know how old he might be.
A song was playing on the speakers: “Dancing Queen” by ABBA.
The man said to the baristas, “You know this song? I know it from Vietnam. I’d heard this song when we were surrounded by Viet Cong. Oh, man, what a nightmare.”
My mind did a little tumble as the guy hastened back out of the door. I pulled up Wikipedia to confirm what I was thinking: the Vietnam War ended in April of 1975.
“Dancing Queen” wasn’t released until August of 1976.
No way he heard that song when he was fighting in the Vietnam War.
Questions followed in my head. Was he deliberately lying, just creating something for part of a fake persona to gain attention, or had something screwed with his memory? Maybe he was just confusing songs…
Hard to say. These things happen to us. Part of being human.
Frieda’s Wandering Thoughts
It seems to me that it’s strange to go to a coffee shop, plug in a game, and sit there, playing a few hours. I mean, I can see sitting there reading a book. That makes complete sense, as does doing homework and studying. I’m puzzled by those who come in, plug in, and watch movies or videos for hours. Of course, I also know what an energy suck that games, movies, and videos can be.
Then again, others probably find it strange for me to go to a coffee shop less than two miles from home, set up a computer and then spend hours there in pursuit of writing. I know from riding others’ blogs that some people find it pretentious.
I defend my writing with extenuating circumstances. Bet the rest can make the same defense. Bottom line, it’s all just as legitimate, normal, and natural in today’s tech world, so just get over it, boomer.
Thirstda’s Wandering Thoughts
My wife was stewing. “Papi changed his routine today. For some reason, he suddenly wanted outside at 4:22, more than two hours before his usual time. I don’t know what’s going on but there he was, scratching on the door, yipping at me because he couldn’t wake you up.”
Between us, I had been awakened but ignored the floofcas Papi was causing because I didn’t want to get up.
I thought of the reasons why Papi the ginger blade, aka Butter Butt, changed his hours. May have been a bowel movement thing. Papi prefers to use the outdoors as his toilet, frequenting the area by the fence behind the bushes.
But, him being a cat, perhaps he heard noises outside and felt a need to investigate. Conversely, maybe he realized the noises were coming from inside the house and decided that the outside was safer.
Other ideas are possible. Flooflight savings time may have kicked in. From what I understand from floofotologists, floofs are notoriously independent about FST. Each decides when they’ll switch over — or if they won’t switch at all. Often, though, once one floof changes to FST, other housefloofs do the same. After all they don’t want to miss out by falling an hour behind their floofmate, cause food. They’d rather get up an hour early rather than missing out on food.
I can respect that.
The Beginning
Daily writing prompt
You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?
It was the beginning of the end the moment I was born but before the end was finalized, I was required to travel and seek answers, although I don’t think I ever understood the question.
Munda’s Wandering Thoughts
“Look,” my wife said. “An ant.”
She was pointing at the kitchen counter between the toaster and coffee maker. Yes, there was an ant. I widened my field of vision. “There’s another. And another.” I pointed them out.
We have ants. My wife and I, I mean. Not as pets; ants are invading.
We noticed them yesterday evening. Black, they’re about a quarter inch long. We don’t kill ants. Our philosophy about insects, spiders, and other critters is live and let live, but it must be our rules.
Ants in the house at this time of year is a surprise. In the past, they’ve invaded during the hot summers, when the ground was parched, and the ants sought water and relief from the blazing heat. Having them as guests in March is a real surprise. That makes us wonder, why now? What are they escaping outside? What do the ants know is happening that we don’t know.
Our process for dealing with things like this is to find their path and cut it off by cleaning without killing. That generally works. But having the visiting ants changes our behavior. I walk around, staring at surfaces, looking for more ants. So far, they seem to be limited to the southern wall, mostly around the fireplace and the dining room bay window. Not many; the most I’ve counted at one time is thirteen.
No trail is visible yet. We can’t figure out how they’re getting in, or where. But we’re on the case. Cuz, you know, we have ants.
And their presence causes a disturbance in the house.
Sunda’s Wandering Thoughts
I watched a woman enter the coffee shop. She’s familiar to me as a semi-regular. Like me, in her late sixties, I think, she walks with direct, no-nonsense style. Her hair is short but neat, and her clothing matches that no-nonsense, low maintenance image. I wonder if that’s how she is — no nonsense, direct, practical. Or is this a facade? Does she walk like that because that’s how she wants to be, and not how she is?
Fun to imagine such a character like that. Reminds me of friends I’ve had. Intelligent and capable in one arena, they were disasters in other areas of their life. Yet others were methodical, practical, and organized in all facets of life.
Memory of a co-worker’s comment to me once springs up: “Your level of organization must drive your wife nuts.” They said that while I was organizing software packages.
No, my wife has never commented on it. But when I put something away, I can tell you exactly where it is. Which, as I think about it, is exactly like both Mom and Dad.
Michael Seidel, writer 