Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
You ever notice that the threads of commonality, through events, emotions, and communications, that tie you to others, are actually strands twisted together that form carbon steel cable that’s much harder to cut or break than you ever imagined?
Yes, it’s easy to say, that’s all over, it’s in the past, but those cables keep you tied. You need to keep cutting and cutting….
“I had to kill him,” he said with a calm voice.
“Assassinate,” a Secret Service agent said.
He smiled. “Assassinate, kill. Funny how we decorate our killing terms. War is acceptable for killing, but terrorism, murder, and assassination are not, even though it’s all about killing. The differences are the who and why, and sanctions. Well, I killed him — excuse me.”
His smile developed a humorous tint previously absent. “I mean, I assassinated him because he was a threat to me and my family. He scared us. The way he spoke on television, the way he sounded, the things he said, all of it, he sounded insane, and it was scary when he started talking about nukes, and using nukes. I don’t want a nuclear war. I don’t think anyone does except crazy people. Like him. And the thing is, as a crazy person, he’s the one that can order us, our country, to use our nuclear weapons to attack another country. But the thing is, we don’t what would have happened then. It would have been like opening Pandora’s box, except Pandora’s box is filled with nuclear and biological weapons, war and terrorists.
“So it was simple. I had to kill him to protect me and my family, and our way of life. It’s funny, but I think he would approve.”
You ever complain about your weather, and then read about someone else’s weather, and say, “Well, at least I don’t have it as bad as them.”?
Yeah, it’s freezing fog here, but it’s dry and in the thirties. Of course, we worry about the snow pack, and not having water this summer, and what those dry conditions will mean to the fire season.
Do you ever think we’ll get weather control? And, if we do, will we have weather neutrality, or will corporations and the wealthy “manage” it for their own benefit?
You ever hear someone say, “I’m getting some socks for my feet,” and wonder, where else do you use your socks?
Yeah, just wondering.
It was such a small matter.
He said, “I’m going to go check the mail.” Musing about his phrasing, he reached for his shoes. He was not “checking the mail,” he was getting the mail. Odd, they always said, “Check the mail.” Where had that originated?
She said, “I dare you to go like that.”
Stopping, he looked at her. “Like what?”
“In your socks.”
He thought a moment. “Without shoes?”
“Yes.”
“What will you give me?”
As she considered her answer, he considered the temperature. It was thirty-five, but it was dry. “Okay,” he said.
She grinned. “You’re an idjit.”
Yes, he agreed, without speaking, leaving the house. It felt odd to be in his socks, walking on the sidewalk and up the asphalt street, different from being barefoot. His feet seemed to make a different side.
The cats followed him, of course. He saw several neighbors, of course. He waved and nodded to them. He didn’t know if they noticed he was wearing socks but not shoes. What did it matter?
It was a small matter, but it felt so very good.
She waited, not moving, listening for her cue as time moved forward. She was still outside, hanging on against the churning energy within her.
“If people saw inside me,” she said to herself, “they would see raging seas with towering, thundering waves and almost continual lightning and thunder. If people saw inside me, they would be awed. Many would be afraid. But those who knew, who were stronger — ”
The countdown shunted her thinking aside. She listened as the ball dropped. Then, as they shouted, “Happy New Year,” she strutted out, the first female year ever, passing the poor old year as he shuffled out, bent and wrinkled, bearded and male, off to the Home of the Old Years. She would be there in one year — the first female there, too — but one year was a lot of time.
Time enough to make some changes, fix some wrongs, and establish some new rights.
He was dubious, but —
He’d been doubtful about the whole thing for months, seven months, when he thought about it. The dream had only been once a week then, but he’d begun to have it every night, ever fucking night. He’d hunted for its meaning on the Internet. He couldn’t find that, but then, popup ads advertising the dream-catcher showed up on his computer. What was it…? What was the dream catcher…?
After realizing it was a spider, he’d avoided thinking about it, but the damn dream seemed to be creeping into his waking hours. Something needed to be done. So he clicked on an ad…and followed the instructions….
He’d bought the spider and brought it home. Black, with neon blue stripes, it didn’t look like any spider he’d seen before. That scared him. It could be poisonous. It looked menacing. Its shiny black body was as wide as a penny. Its legs, mechanically slender and perfect, tripled its diameter.
The spider moved around the jar. The sound its legs made against the glass seemed amplified. Hearing it, he felt his scrotum grow tight with tension and his heartbeat increase. As he sipped wine and watched, the spider settled directly opposite of him. Its eyes faced him. Drawing its legs in close, it crouched down.
It’s watching me, he thought.
To test it, he got up and moved to the other side of the table.
The spider walked in parallel to him. When he stopped, the spider stopped.
His resolve splintering, he shivered. He’d bought the spider to catch his dream. He wanted to know what it meant, and make it stop, but —
He had to use it. He’d paid a hundred dollars in silver for the spider. He was not a wasteful person. One hundred dollars was an extravagance. He could buy two or three pairs of shoes for one hundred dollars.
Several glasses of wine became a bottle, which became two. The alcohol helped restore his determination. He picked up the jar.
The spider watched….
With shaking hands and dry lips, he unscrewed the lid and placed the jar on its side on the table. “Here you go,” he said in a voice he barely heard himself, a voice slurred with alcohol. “Do your thing.”
The spider scurried out.
Stopping, it looked at him.
“I don’t want to know,” he said to the spider. “Just do what you’re supposed to do.”
The spider raised two front legs and rubbed them together.
Thinking he heard a high, sustained note, he hurried from the room.
He left the light on, though. Just…in case.
Later, the wine’s influence and warm house relaxed him. He fell asleep in his recliner while watching “A Christmas Story” on the living room television.
Later, he awoke. He was drooling. The television was on but made no sound. He heard…scratching.
He looked up.
The television’s ambient blue light lit the spider above him. It was spinning a web. Stopping as he watched, the spider lowered itself until it came down on the bridge of his nose. He wanted to jerk away, scream, or get up and run, but he was paralyzed.
Sweat dribbled down his neck. The spider moved. Each spidery step made him shiver and shudder. He lost sight of it, but felt it go across his forehead. Pausing at his temple, the spider turned and trekked down the side of his head.
The spider reached his ear opening. It stopped. He held his breath. After a moment, the spider entered his ear.
He thought he’d hear or feel its steps, but it was like the spider had disappeared. Waiting for something to happen, he reflected, this was how they’d told him it would be. Nothing was left to do but sleep and dream, and then wait for the spider to tell him what the dream meant.
Maybe then, he would have peace.
If she could just make it through this meeting, she could make it through the morning. Then she’d just need to make it through the afternoon and the drive home. Then, she just had to make it through the party tonight, and the family dinner tomorrow, and the celebrations the day after that. If she could just make it through all those things, she could make it to the end of the week, and get some time for herself.
But first, she had to make it through this meeting.
He said, “If I knew what I was looking for, maybe I could help you. But neither of us know. We’re just hanging on, hoping one of us will find a way.”
“Where’s the stopper?” he said.
She looked at him. “The what?”
“The stopper, the stopper.” He was moving as he spoke, looking around the sofa and tables.
“You mean the television clicker?”
“Yes, the clicker, the remote, where is it?”
“Here.” She handed it to him. As he muted the television, she said, “Why’d you call it the stopper?”
“I had to stop from hearing that commercial,” he said, sinking back into his chair with a sigh.
Michael Seidel, writer 