Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Sipping coffee, he watched the morning sky drizzle soft rain over the grass and trees. Mom was in the hospital. Her house was quiet in a different way. It wasn’t the house he grew up in. No, he was years gone when she found and purchased this house. She and the house shared a character. They’d spent years together. Feeling like the house missed her, he told the house what was going on, so it wouldn’t worry.
It was the least he could do for such a kind house.
Good morning. Today is Monday, Feb. 8, 2021. Sunrise came at 7:16 AM. Sunset is expected at 5:34 PM. Outside, it’s 31 degrees F and foggy, but we’re expecting sunshine and a high of 50 degrees.
Today’s music came from a walk the other day. The song hung around me, intermittently spurting into the musical mental stream throughout the last few days. Released in 1967, “The Rain, the Park & Other Things” by the Cowsills reached number two on the charts in America. If you’re unfamiliar with the song, it begins with seeing a girl in a park.
I saw her sitting in the rain
Raindrops falling on her
She didn’t seem to care
She sat there and smiled at me
h/t to Genius.com
This is what happened to me that day: I saw a girl sitting in the park off Peachy Street in Ashland. Unlike the song’s subject, this girl had a leash with a dog, and she didn’t disappear. Nor did the sun come out. Maybe, if the sun had emerged, she would’ve disappeared. The rain was falling and I didn’t hang to learn. I have no idea if she could make me happy. Didn’t really think about it. I was preoccupied with a song going in my head and avoiding her to stay six feet away. There’s a virus out there, you know. Must be careful.
BTW, they called it psychedelic last century when a girl disappeared like that; now it would be called magical realism.
Stay positive. Test negative. Wear a mask. Get vaccinated. Enjoy the music. You have your orders. Now go.
He knew exactly what’d taken place.
The firefight wound down. Adrenalin still scorched his nerves, numbed his muscles, and drove instincts and senses. The others were in front of him. “Rat-a-tat-tat,” he said, shooting into his comrades’ backs. Laughter poured out of him as they jerked. “Rat-a-tat-tat.”
That was it. They were dead. He was alive. He’d enjoyed it, to be truthful. Killing felt good. Killing was the best way to set yourself free. He put his rifle in another dead man’s hand. “Bang, bang,” he said to the dead man, what’s his name? Why’d the dead have names? They’d never use them.
One sat up to his left. He didn’t see. Later, he knew, because he was the one, the one who’d killed, the one who was the killer, and the one who came back to kill the killer. Karma’s ripples were bigger than he’d known or suspected.
Sitting up, a temporary life in a dead man, he watched himself laugh as he remembered laughing, and then pointed the assault rifle at himself and emptied the magazine into himself, regretfully smiling as he jerked, gushed blood, and finally sank to the floor. Even so injured, he managed to turn his head and look at him. His lips moved, but he didn’t speak. He remembered, though, that he’d been about to say, “You,” because he knew, he knew.
It was really a mercy. With that done, he left the dead man and the site, returning to the bardo from whence he’d come. At last, he felt peace. At last, all the voices in his head fell quiet. At last, all the dead left him alone.
At last, karma’s ripples died.
Michael Seidel, writer 