Sometimes when he glances in the mirror, he sees his younger self in there grinning. “Looks like you made it, old man,” the kid says.
He scoffs, “Yeah, despite all your efforts to kill us.”
The Writing Moment
They were watching a television show. A body landed on the cement behind an FBI agent. The agent was on a cell. The landing body thudded. She flinched and looked back.
His wife said, “That’s not believable. She didn’t even duck.”
“That’s a choice the creative team makes as part of the storytelling. How does the character react to something like that? Are they calm and unfazed or do they freak? That’s part of the show’s tenure and the series’ atmosphere. I make decisions like that all the time when I’m writing, trying to decide how someone reacts and keep them true to the story and character.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
Well, it was important to him.
Today’s Chat
I queried Bing’s AI about catfood this morning. I read Gulp by Mary Roach. In it, she mentioned (that I recall) that catfood doesn’t taste like we think it does, especially to us, but also to cats. I decided to ask Bing’s AI. Didn’t impress me. Here you go.
Wednesday’s Wandering Thought
Microsoft updated his computer. He supposed it was a good thing. Needed to repair security holes, misfiring features, and add new stuff.
Took so long, though. Bricked his computer for almost half an hour. He watched as it went through the process, shut down, and then started again.
Nothing worked after he logged in but the task manager said the machine was busy. He rebooted.
Everything came up. Now the experience would really go live. What would be broken, moved, added, relocated?
Updates were usually a trying experience. It was really just more first world blues, though.
The Purse
She sat at a coffee shop table a dozen feet away, alone, attractive, maybe thirty, so he watched, a voyeur.
She probably knew but didn’t look. Setting her small black purse down, she opened it and took out a phone. An Apple laptop followed.
He gawked. Purse that small, little circular thing with a gold chain, couldn’t hold anything that big. That purse was like a TARDIS.
She drew out a power cord. A hardback book followed. Bottle of water.
No way, he told himself, no way. All that stuff from that purse wasn’t possible, and yet, he knew what he saw.
Looking up, she gazed at him with electric blue eyes and smiled.
Like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Monday’s Wandering Thought
Stripping down to shower, he tossed his dirty undies on the floor to be taken to the hamper. The cat immediately marched over, sniffed the garment, and sat down on it. A purr boomed out.
Liked he claimed a major prized.
An Old Friend
Night came with silence
But then there was a sound
Something cracking hard
Like a window coming down.
Atlas leaped to investigate
And then froze in the spot
It could be something dangerous
And that meant a lot.
But still he had a duty
To protect his furless folks
So he would do as needed
Because his duty was not a joke.
So boldy, inch by inch,
Atlas sniffed and advanced
Till he came to the danger
And finally could relax.
For it wasn’t a burglar
Nor a killer or a mouse
Just the ghost of an old friend, Titan,
A dog who once lived in the house.
Sunday’s Wandering Thought
He needed to iron a shirt. Short sleeve. Cotton. Button up.
Been so long since he’d ironed a shirt. Used to do it almost every day in the military and quite often when he was in marketing. New materials and different work activities and standards had lessened requirements to iron.
He was still using their thirty-year-old iron. Why not? It works. He figured smart irons have finally arrived, though what a smart iron would do, he doesn’t know. Probably robot irons have arrived, too, just give it the shirt and it’ll know what to do. But he had to manually do it, setting up the little board and then plying seams, collar, yoke, sleeves, and most treacherous of all for him, the placket with steam and heat to make it all look unwrinkled.
After all that, he didn’t wear the shirt. Oh, well. It’d be ready for next time.
Michael Seidel, writer 