Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I like this quote. Writing is a relationship with my mind, and not just an escape or an attempted career path.
It’s always why I like having dreams at night, and remembering and thinking about them. They’re another part of the relationship with my mind.
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….
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.
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.”
They moved and shifted during the night, ending up back to back in bed. Her heel tapped his heel in a gentle rhythm, like a heartbeat, to him. She would awaken a little, resume the heartbeat, and then sleep again, finally stopping for the night when her sleep became deep.
He lay awake for a long time, thinking about the heartbeat, and how it felt, waiting for it to begin again.
You ever wish everything that you said and heard was being recorded, and that you could access those recordings to see what was said because the other person(s) involved have a completely different take on the situation?
Not me. No, sir. Nope.
Never….
Once again, he found himself trimming the strings that attached him to others.
snip, snip
he tried cutting off their strings of negativity energy
snip, snip
rigidity, judgement
snip, snip
anger, resentment, hostility
snip, snip
karma
But he’d learned by now that the strings were like hair,
always growing back, and eventually requiring a new trim.
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
We are old
All of our promises are spent
But not forgotten
The battlefields are memorials
The battles
Never resolved
Never forgotten
And never done
He was surprised. She had never spoken of her ex in kind terms. “Why?” he said.
She considered her words. “What else could I do? He was dying. He’d had cancer. I loved him once. We had two children together.”
It had been the third marriage for both, he knew. Each had children from a previous marriage. Lasting ten years, personal sturm and drang struck every day.
Her tired face softened. “He’d asked his children for help. They turned him down. He came to me. He said, “I don’t want to die in a little room alone.” So I took him in, put a bed in the living room, and cared for him until he died.
“What else could I do?”
Michael Seidel, writer 