words
dollars
wins
losses
hours
minutes
days
calories
grams
thoughts
It all counts,
one way or another.
His Name
His grey-green master came to see him in the morning.
The sun was up, and it was eight thirty by his clocks, which seemed accurate. He’d just completed showering, shaving, and his other personal matters when he turned and saw her. His house was at a level where she could comfortably look in on him without bending much.
The intrusion infuriated him. Shouting profanities at her tempted his tongue, but he held back, instead smiling at her. Still smiling, he gave a mock smile and bowed. He wondered how she would take that, and then turned his back on her to go down and make breakfast.
“Tolleaf,” she said.
She’d said that before, he remembered. Stopping, he turned and looked up at her.
“Tolleaf,” she said.
This is probably his name, he realized. What she’d decided to call him. He shook his head. “No. No.” Pointing at himself, he said, “Thomas.”
“Tolleaf,” she said.
“Thomas,” he said. He hit his chest with his fist. “Thomas. Thomas.” He hit his chest again. “Thomas.”
Bending closer to his house, she opened her yellow eyes wide. He watched her irises and pupils change. The capillaries and arteries in her eyes looked like a garden hose.
“Thomas?” she said.
Thomas nodded. “Yes.” He nodded again and pointed at himself. “Thomas.”
“Thomas,” she said.
He felt sick that this made him feel happy.
Rules
He believed in following rules, and had one for everything. Rules helped expedite life by reducing the time and energy needed to think about things, freeing him to relax. His number one rule was not to get close to anyone or to have a pet. Number two was, only wash items he felt like folding.
He ended up buying a lot of clothes, and was forced to create a rule that he would buy only used clothing. Others didn’t seem to understand, but then, they were operating under a different set of rules.
Pet
She’d never had one before, but she thought it was time. Everyone else had one. That made it time. Otherwise, she was not part of the norm. She liked being part of the norm.
They were so tiny, they amazed her. She walked past their cages, looking down and studying the inhabitants. A few made noises at her, but most stayed back, wary and watchful. It was one of the latter that attracted her.
Stopping before his cage, she knew he was the one. White, with brown hair and a beard, he looked older than most. Older ones were rarely adopted. His clothes smelled; she would need to buy him new clothes. They took care of themselves, but often needed supplies. Besides food, he would need grooming materials and clothes. The Center sold it all, goods the Forces had captured and brought back with them for the pets.
“Open the cage,” she said. “I want to see this one.”
He seemed to realize something was going on because he stood and stepped forward. His tiny hands were balled into fists. The inhabitants of the other cages began making noise as his cage opened. He stared up at her as she leaned in and picked him up.
“Careful,” the slave said.
“I am,” she said, resentful of the other’s tone and words. “I know what I’m doing.”
The slave scuttered back.
The human fit in her hand. He was so small, delicate, and light. “He has blue eyes,” she said.
“Yes,” the slave said.
She liked his blue eyes. “How old is he?”
“He’s fifty, in human years.”
“How long will he live?”
“He’s been treated. I’ll probably live another hundred human years with proper care, which is about twenty-five of our years.”
“I know. Do you have clothes for him?”
“Yes, I think so. He’s average. I’m sure we can find something to fit him.”
“Then I’ll take him.” She held the human up so he was level with eyes. “I will call you Riajin,” she said.
He squeaked back.
He was so cute.
Risky Business
It’s a risky business,
this writing business,
trying to make stories out of your thoughts.
It’s a risky business,
this writing business,
putting the words in the write way.
You have these images,
these sounds and scenes,
Floating up through your head.
Yeah, and if you’re not fast enough,
not alert enough,
that stuff all fades to dead.
You know, it’s a risky business,
this writing business,
and all that it entails.
But if you keep trying,
and you never stop writing,
They can never say you failed.
Old Love
Old love ties me to you
Sometimes, it gets us through
But sometimes, it’s like a crevasse in the way,
Something to avoid, something that darkens the day
Old love is a weight on my chest
Sometimes, though, it brings out my best,
But sometimes, it’s like I can’t breath,
Sometimes, sometimes, it’s short of my needs
Old love is a whisper in my mind
My look at you reminds me of old times
and a future so bright I had to wear shades
Old love never dies, but, yes, it fades
Destination
Have you ever been out walking, and then suddenly stopped and looked around, and asked yourself, “Where am I going?”, and your mind answers, “Do you mean metaphorically?”
Yes, I have.
The August Holiday
The best thing about Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the December holiday triumvirate in America is that they make it difficult for November and December to sneak up on us. It’s hard to be unaware of the calendar with all that commercial preparation – advertising, music, and sales, repeatedly presented at high volume – taking place.
That’s the trouble with August in America: no real holiday to mark the calendar. Sure, we have Labor Day at September’s beginning, but it’s one of those nebulous Federal Monday holidays. People often ask each other, “When is Labor Day this year?”, meaning, what day does Labor Day fall on? Then you hit that long stretch from there until Halloween. Days skim by on such untroubled water. Suddenly September has turned to October, and you’re playing catch-up with time.
It’s a game that’s hard to win.
Dimension
Do you ever awaken and discover that you’re in a different dimension, with no idea of how you arrived there?
Are you sure?
Searching
Do you ever get irritated because you put something like “Veteran’s Day” into a search engine on your computer, and the results come back, “Save on Veterans at Walmart. Free Shipping Site to Store.”?
No, neither do I?
Michael Seidel, writer 