Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I like to go down stairs as fast as I can, like I’m a little kid. Doing this the other day, I startled two elderly women as they came around the corner to go up the steps. Apologizing, I explained what I was doing.
“Oh,” one said, and I moved on. As I did, I heard her companion say, “What’d he say?” Then I heard a brief exchange, and one said, “That’s so dangerous.”
Yes, that’s me, Dangerous Michael.
It’s probably just me, but I’m concerned when a seven hundred twenty-two page novel begins with a thirty-eight page prologue.
My head is larger
my balls hang lower
my feet are wider
and longer, too
I’m getting shorter
and my hair is thinner,
just giving the next gen something to think about.
Rise up, I hear.
Can you rise down?
It is possible to sit up but if you’re standing, does sit down need to be specified?
(But if you omit down, and say, “Sit,” will people become offended that it sounds like you’re ordering a dog?)
And why do we give up?
Word count
Step count
Money count
Vote count
I thought it was the thought that counts.
You ever approach your car in a parking lot and think, boy, I did a terrible job parking, and look at your car and think, man, it’s a lot dirtier than I realized, and then try to get into your car and discover —
Yeah. It’s not your car.
Happened to me yesterday. Meanwhile, friends told a Palo Alto tale involving two Priuses and a parking garage. One of the cars was their vehicle. They got in it, started it up, and began backing out.
The wife said, “Something’s wrong.” She looked around. “I don’t think this is our car.”
More looking around was conducted. They noticed a tissue box on the back seat.
Definitely not their car.
They pulled back into their spot, parked and exited. But, what the hell? Where was their car? They’d parked right here.
Actually, they’d parked two spots over. A large truck blocked their car from their sight during their approach. Some color and year, just a little different.
Economists and politicians like to talk about recessions and inflation. But some think the real recessions are about hairlines, and inflation is about the waist line. It’s hard to do anything about either one of those, too.
It was day zillion of my head cold. That could be an exaggeration but that’s what it seems like. Illness impacts time perception, just like being in school when you’re young and in school impacts time perception. My illness found me in bed at a time that’s not my norm. Apparently, that fact slipped past my cats.
I can’t say I was dozing. Motionless on my back, I was concentrating on the pains and sounds my body made, sometimes writing in my head, and sometimes attending the sounds and movements of the mucus streams in my head. The moment’s key is that I was motionless and quiet.
I heard the door open but didn’t think about it. Then I heard an unusual voice say, “I come with claws sheathed, brother.” It sort of sounded like James Earl.
“Claws sheathed,” other voices said as my mind said, “What the hell?” I opened my eyes but didn’t otherwise move.
“Why are you here?” a voice like Howard Keel said. “You’re not allowed in here. You’re going to get in trouble with the people.”
“I come to speak about Michael with you,” James Earl said. He’s been sick.”
“I know he’s been sick,” Howard Keel said.
Locating the sounds, I lifted my head and turned it. The bedroom door was open. My four male cats were in a circle. It astonished me. Pape and Boo didn’t get along, Tucker and Boo didn’t get along, and Tucker and Pape didn’t get along.
I had to be dreaming. This didn’t make sense. Why the hell would my cats talk like humans? They’re cats. They have ways to communicate.
“I’m worried about him,” the James Earl voice said. That belonged to Tucker.
“So am I,” Quinn said in a Ray Ramano voice. “That’s why I urged Tucker to come in here. We need to talk about it. If Michael dies, we’ll depend on K to take care of us.”
“So?” Boo said. The big black tailless cat was Howard Keel. “She’s done it before.”
“That’s right,” Pape said in a Doogie Howser voice. “She always take care of me. She likes me.”
Boo stood. “That’s not the point,” Quinn said before Boo could speak or do anything more. “Yes, she’ll take care of us, but I assure you, it’ll be minimal. I’ve lived with them longer than any of you. Michael used to be gone all the time. She took care of us when he was, but it’s not the same. She has an iron will. She can’t be manipulated like him. He’s a soft touch. You can’t give her a mew and a purr and get a treat or catnip. There’s little lap time with her. Trust me, it’s different.”
A cough welled up in me. I swallowed it down and fought to keep it in.
Tucker nodded. “I’ve been around long enough to witness what Quinn says. I can testify that it’s truth.”
“Okay,” Pape said. “So what can we do?”
“We can do our best to keep him alive,” Quinn said.
Pape said, “We’re cats. I don’t see how.”
“Monitor him,” Quinn said. “More than we usually do. Stay on him and with him. Pray to the Nine Lives that they hear our concerns and answer our prayers. Show Michael that we care so that he’ll care and fight to stay alive.”
“You really think it’s that bad?” Boo said.
I launched into a coughing spasm. When it finished, the door was closed and the cats were gone, except for Quinn. Tail up, he grumewed over the bed toward me.
After blowing my nose and wiping my eyes, I put my head down and thought about what I’d seen and heard. It had to be a fever dream. Cats don’t talk human languages.
“Mew,” Quinn said to me. Purrs pouring out of him, he bit my cheek in a gentle love bite and then nestled tight against the side of my head. His purrs thrummed through my skull.
Yes, it had to be a dream.
Don’t you love it when your Fitbit says, “Time to exercise,” and you stand up to do so, and the Fitbit says, “Nailed it!”?
Yeah, don’t you think more of life needs to be like that?
This is it, my last meal. I’m grilling my last steak, a lovely marbled porterhouse. A bottle of pinot noir has been secured to go with it, along with a baked potato with the works, and asparagus that I’ll grill. Dessert would be key lime pie. It has to be pie, and I’ll eat the whole damn thing.
Yes, it’s still early days. The virus or whatever the fuck is spreading is not understood. Zombies are running amuck. There’s panic and terror in the streets, and speeches to stay inside, avoid zombies, and remain calm are airing around the clock on the net, television, and radio. It’s all zombies, all the time.
But I ask you, why should I try to stay alive? My retirement account has plummeted. A zombie apocalypse will do that. Inflation is sky high. I had five grand set aside in my house, but it’s down the forty-five hundred. That meal I described? Guess how much it cost? Two hundred dollars for that stuff. Two hundred. Keurig coffee pods are going for five dollars each.
Sure, I have a supply of essentials (like coffee pods), but then what happens? You really think the world is going to get its sierra together in time to solve this crises? I laugh at you if you do. Hell, only a dozen senators and sixty representatives survived the first zombie wave. They also got the POTUS and most of the cabinet. The politicians that are left are, well, politicians. They can read from teleprompters and look good, but they don’t have principles and they’re not leaders. I’m not depending on them for anything.
Why not become a zombie? Zombies don’t worry about anything. They just wander the fuck around, eating whatever is alive that gets in their way. They have no concerns about climate change, gun control, taxes, healthcare, trade wars, tariffs, the environment, new cars, clothing, hygiene, or what constitutes a catch in the NFL. Droughts, war, and natural disasters don’t bother them.
So I’ve decided, I’ll eat this final meal tonight, and then join the undead masses in the morning. In a way, I think it’s funny, because the revolution is finally here.
It’s just not the one we expected.
Michael Seidel, writer 