Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A man and his companion sat down with their dogs on the coffee house porch. Both people had pastries which they sat down on the table. The dog immediately went for that.
“No, Curry,” the man said, lightly touching the dog. “Come on. Make good decisions.”
I laughed to myself. I bet the dog thought that going for the food was a good decision.
The barista called out, “Regular coffee for here.”
I swear that all conversation stopped. Everyone stared, surprise mingling with wonder on their expressions. Then came a slow scan. What was that drink? Regular coffee? What is ‘regular coffee’? Who is it for?
After a few minutes, a person busily scarfing up a wedge of mushrooms and spinach quiche rushed the counter. “Is this mine?” she called as she put her hand out.
“Yes,” the barista agreed. The woman seized the cup and slurped up coffee, seemingly oblivious to the wonder going on around her.
I’m in the coffee shop this week. Conversations swirl like loose leaves on an autumn breeze. I zone in and out. That’s guided by the Writing Neurons. Sometimes, they fuse a solid grip on my focus, and I notice nothing outside of the scenes in my head and the words on the screen. When they let go, I generally look up to breathe, blink, take in some water and coffee.
Lo, I hear words then. “Bro’, are you going to blah blah blah?” This is one young female talking to another. I suspect they’re high schoolers. We’re two blocks from the high school and youth is oozing out of them.
“No, bro, I can’t, got to blah blah blah.”
I’m taken by how “bro'” has evolved in use. I’ve used bro’ for decades with males of all colors, ages, positions, and relationships. Never, though, never, with a woman. Took a while for me to accept hearing and calling females ‘guys’. Guys was always…um, a guy thing…to me.
“Bro’,” a young female says to her young male companion. Appearing to be about fifteen, sixteen, they speak and move with BF/GF intimacy. She goes on to talk to him about tonight’s dinner. Later, I hear him say, “Bro’, I gotta fly.”
They rise together and hold hands, two bros moving into the world, progressing in life, changing languages, changing expectations.
I think to them, good luck, bro’.
I am a known coffee-shop regular. The manager gives me a wave and a grin as she deals with the guard picking up the previous week’s take. I put in a fake order, an oat-milk iced siracha dusted with chocolate. The barista laughs. My usual order already awaits me at the pickup station despite five people in line ahead of me.
My favorite corner table is available. I’m soon in the writing realm, pretending to be a famous novelist. Habib approaches, bag in hand. “Michael? Cinnamon.” I don’t catch the other words as a wave of sound takes them out to sea.
I know it’s not mine. But I know another Michael is here. He’s one of five other regular Michaels I see coming through.
“No, it’s Michael’s,” I tell Habib, pointing out the other Michael. The other Michael waves and then gives me a thumbs up. Habib pivots his way.
This is how it goes in the life of a regular.
I’ve been hearing a little voice in my head. Well, there are actually a few. I live by a committee of voices in my head. Some are writing advisors, editors, and muses. Others are DIY budgeteers. Several more very vocal citizens and progressives are in there, often spitting mad with exasperation and disgust as the Trump wrecking ball obliterates democracy, decency, and morality in the United States. Besides them and voices of memory who like to bring up things I have done and enjoyed, I also have a couple health consultant voices, a few therapists and exercise coaches, and relationship advisors. On the whole, they’re mostly civilized, respecting the other voices, only speaking up when the others are quiet.
One thing I’ve learned from all of these is not to ignore them. As time has threaded past, I’ve repeatedly been re-educated that the little voices often know a lot more than me about what’s going on and what I should do. When I ignore them, things will go bad, as they predict. Naturally, they then say, “I told you so. You should’ve listened.”
So I’m vowing to them again, “Okay, I’m listening.”
Naturally, one snidely replied, “Sure.”
The voices are a lot like me.
Dad and I spoke for almost an hour today. The conversation energized me, boosting my mood into a happier place. On the surface, a high percentage can be attributed to relief: Dad was home. No greater problems were found during his latest hospital visit, and it was a short one. He and his wife were both friendly, engaging, and happy on their end. Undoubtably this fed me and my spirits.
I also insist, though, that some of this came from just speaking with Dad. He and I are familiars. We mock and respect one another. He’s one of the few people I sense I can really spill myself to regarding what’s going on, whether it’s politics, writing, relationships with my wife, Mom, and sisters, or my DIY projects.
We’ve not always been like these. It’s been a long evolution. I’m glad we made it here, though. It’s taken time. We followed a torturous path. But here we are.
Finally.
Give me some chatter, baby. I like hearing the baristas tossing comments around as orders are given and taken. Add some background music, pop and rock songs which I sometimes know, hovering on my conscious awareness. Pump in some coffee making clinks, grinding, hissing, thumps, and clacks. All that together enhances my focus and concentration.
It’s a melange of familiar and forgettable noises blending into one sound, a combo which is easily shunted aside and ignored. It’s when a quiet rises and spreads that I stop my thinking and typing and look up to see what’s going on.
Sounds different from the norm will puncture my focus. Like, a child’s scream. A dog’s bark. A growing argument or increasingly loud disagreement. These all pull me up from under. But otherwise, with that coffee shop blend percolating around me, I think and type until, oh, damn, I forgot to drink my coffee. OMG, the coffee shop is empty. And, my ass has fallen asleep from sitting so long. And, I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago.
Those are all signs that it was a pretty productive day.
I was out for a walk. A beautiful day embraced me with warm air, an immensely hot sun, and a consisten breeze that worked on softening the heat’s edge. Moderate success was enjoyed.
On the corner was a park. Within it, a gaggle of geese milled and ate. Not far from them, a flock of cyclists enjoyed a picnic break by a sycamore tree. Forty feet out, a quad of deer ate and digested in an Oak’s shade.
Saturda in the park in Ashlandia.
The lazy river waters silently glide by
Bird wings catch light and flash as they fly by
Time drifts slowly as the day goes by
Thoughts and plans meander as ideas come by
New memories and hopes form as life passes by
Other times and places are recalled with a soft good bye
Knock on wood, I am not superstitious. I’ve owned three wonderful black cats in Crystal, Sam, and Boo. Each gave me nothing but purrs and good company.
Of course, I do respect that others are superstitious. That affects things. So, for them, I throw salt over my shoulder when I spill it. With many affected by Friday the 13th, I know that many people are a little more distracted and nervous, so I’m a little more careful and alert.
Sure, I do have my lucky underwear, but that’s not superstition. I’ve observed the cause and effect of having them on. I only wear them when extra luck is needed these days because the elastic waistband is worn out and its cotton material has grown as sheer as a silk negligee. The light blue boxers also have a couple holes torn in them from getting a toe ripping through the material when I was putting them on. My wife wants me to throw them away but come on, that would surely be temping the gods to do that.
I do wear a pen on my shirt, but that’s not superstition. I’m a writer and the pen is a talisman to enhance my creativity and prevent writer’s block. What fiction writer would turn that down?
Also, I don’t walk under ladders just as a matter of safety and common sense. Someone could be doing something up there, drop it, and bonk me on the head.
And that would be bad luck.
Michael Seidel, writer 