

Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not




If I could remember what I wanted to say –
It was something about the stuff in this drawer. It’s just –
I’ve never had any real use for this drawer. It was, you know…extra. So I started putting things in it. Odd stuff. All this was supposed to be temporary but a lot of it’s been in here for years. I don’t know what it’s all from. Screws leftover from things I installed. Never like to throw away screws. Never know when you’ll need a screw just like this one. Screwdriver, of course. I was looking for that. It’s supposed to be in my tool box. Or these pens. Old gum. Gum’s probably been in here ten years. Trident. My wife liked chewing it, so I kept some on hand for her. Don’t need it now. Cat toys. Don’t need that, either. Last cat I had was Jury. Big black cat. Sweetest animal you’ll ever meet. He died…how long ago was that? Shoelaces. A stone. I can almost remember why I kept this little stone. Look at it. Strange blue. Round, almost oval.
Everything in here was part of a moment. It all meant something to me when I put it in here. I can’t remember any of it.
I can’t even remember what it was that I wanted to tell you. I don’t even recall why I wanted to speak.
But there was something I wanted to say.
I just can’t remember. It feels like I should.


Deeply immersed in an intensive writing session, he struggled coming out and adjusting to the light, sound, and activity outside of his head. Encountering an energetic, talkative friend, he could do little but smile and nod. After they parted, she probably thought him rude or something. He should have a tee shirt made that says, “I’m not being anti-social, but I’ve been writing.” ‘Cause the writing stays on even when he walks away from the session. If there’s an off-switch, he’s not sure where it is.

He watched a series called “Quarterbacks” on Netflix. It focused on three NFL quarterbacks. One of them is Patrick Mahomes of Kansas City. After a big play that clinched a game for his team, Mahomes ran around the field, jumping and shouting, “That’s what I fucking do. That’s what I fucking do. That’s what I fucking do.”
He admired the man’s enthusiasm, energy, and celebration. Maybe after finishing a chapter in the novel in progress, he should celebrate in the same way, leaping up and running around the coffee shop shouting, “That’s what I fucking do. That’s what I fucking do. That’s what I fucking do.”
Probably wouldn’t go over too well, he decided. Disrupt the ambiance too much. Best to just continue celebrating successes with private exultation.