Entry -4244. The Countdown Continues.

 Entry   -4244 and counting.

Alter Ego - The third person in the room when there's only one of you.

Everyone should have an alter-ego. An alter-ego can provide alternative perspectives and can shoulder some of the blame when things go wrong.

I created one last summer. It was for a short story about a party I went to and I did not want to write about me going to a party. Writing in the first person sometimes feels like it's all about me, which it is, but I'd rather it not be. I am already narcissistic enough without adding more fuel to the ego fire.

 

Jack is his name.

 

He looks exactly like me if I was better looking, taller, stronger, and had more hair. He has a wondrous ability to stay the same age. The passage of time has little effect, (or is it affect?). He stays forever the same. Sort of a Peter Pan.

 

He has many of the same foibles as me, lack of confidence, awkward in social situations, plenty of regrets, issues with self esteem and is a terrible speller. He is not sure what to make of life in its entirety. And life, to him, is quite absurd. Humans, mostly, humans are absurd. Not the trees, nor the birds or the stars or the combustion engine. They are what they are and are content to be what they are. Yes, it's people. Of which he is one. People are not content with what is. Isn't that crazy?

By writing in the third person with an alter ego you can disclose things about yourself that no one would guess about you.

 

    "Jack was procrastinating. He knew he was procrastinating. He just choose to ignore it. He knew he was being selfish. He choose to ignore that too. It was nine in the morning and his job was to free the chickens and the ducks from their coops. Usually the caged birds were released on bail a little past eight.

    It had snowed the night before, not much, an inch, if that. It looked cold out. He had to put on his galoshes and scarf and coat and mittens and phew, it was all just too much. Instead he watched old Beatle videos on youtube. Seeing the young Beatles play Hey Jude live on the David Frost tv show brought tears to his eyes. It was nostalgic. He tried to hide his tears so no one would comment or make fun of him and think of him less of a man. He had a memory of his dad telling him to get a haircut and telling him to toughen the fuck up and calling him a fagot. Mostly he was perplexed by his father who seemed to have several contradictory sides to him. The two didn't see eye to eye. They were of different generations, different times, different minds. Some memories are not so nostalgic.

    Eventually his guilt overpowered his sense of procrastination and reluctantly he put his outer clothes on over his pajamas and went out the door.

    Jack's sudden appearance startled a flock of Starlings, their black bodies lifting off the white snow. The lilacs were full of Blue Jays. They squawked and shouted out their warnings as they flew off into the forest. They would be back later. Chickadees and Juncos bolted for safety too. Pigeons on the telephone wire took to the skies and circled. Even Jane the local Raven did a one about to check out the commotion. It was one of those opening scenes in a movie that are sort of foreshadowing, setting the stage for the awful events yet to come. All that was needed was an eerie musical score and unfortunately the only music present was an ear worm going on in Jack's head. 'Hey Jude.' It's sort of a happy tune but it can get annoying after too much brain time. If the birds did not all take to the skies at once he wouldn't have even noticed them.

    He fetched fresh water and gave them food and they were happy and Jack was happy his chores were complete and all the wild birds, when they came back, were happy because there was more food for them to eat.

    Everyone was happy. The end."

 

Not really. There's more. But that seems enough right now.  

     

 

 

Entry 4246

Journal Entry 4246

365 x 81 = 29565

Do you see what I'm getting at? 

+ 20 more days to cover leap years.

That's it. You guessed it.

That's all I got. 

29585 days. Total.

If I'm lucky.

It's a big if, this 81, I'm asking a lot.

 

I'm shooting for 81. I don't know why.

I lie. I sort of do but no need to go there now.

And how likely it would be to kick the bucket on my exact eighty-first birthday. 

Probably not very.

If I was curious and I did the math then I'd find out I have 4246 days left to use up as I wish.

 

This means I've used up 25340 or so days up until today.

I am not the best at math.

Today is February 16, 2024.

Sigh, time has gone by so fast.

Jeez, what the hell did I do with all those days?

 

I don't really care for quotes. Many are merely cute eye rollers. Now and then, though, one has appeal. This one stuck.

"Going on holiday offers us a chance to be unhappy somewhere else with better weather."

I laughed and groaned at the same time. It does not sum up my life I'll let you know. Thankfully. But it sort of does. I can relate.

 

We take ourselves with us wherever we go.

So, wherever you go, there you are.

 

In this moment I am, of course, typing. The forecast called for a cloudy day. They were wrong. The sun is in and out of the clouds and when the sun it out the living room is bright and cheerful. It snowed last night, about four inches and through our great picture window I can see it cling to the tree branches. The trees in the forest across the way look skeletal. It is a powdery snow, like feathers. The temperature is a brisk minus four and there is no wind. I am chewing a piece of gum. The flavour is long gone. My ass feels bony on the wooden stool. I am wearing yellow socks, the kind that are called ankle socks. My sweatpants are camouflage blue and my shirt-coat is red. Three primary colours. The dog whose name is Coconut is curled at my feet. She is snoring and sleeping on her back like Snoopy. Paws in the air. Catherine is in the kitchen about to make banana bread. She is kind and generous, making the bread for the Iah's. I plan to make an apple pie shortly. It will be for us. We had a good apple harvest this year for the first time since we have been here.

Am I happy in this moment? No, probably not. I wouldn't put it quite like that. But nor am I miserable or sad or cranky or envious of all my friends leading extraordinary lives on Facebook, nor am I anxious. I am content. I am here, now. This is my choice.

 

It is nothing special. I am nothing special. I keep reminding myself of this.

 

4245 to go.

The Sloth and I

The Sloth and I

 

 

A three toed sloth

came wallowing through

The night was dark

and inky too

She wore a hat

and one blue shoe,

And that was all I knew.

Her eyes were huge

And round and red

Two of them

Right in her head

And in her hand

A book she read,

And I was full of dread.

A sloth, you see

I've never seen

Are they good

Or are they mean

And if they're mean

What does that mean,

To learn I was not keen.

She looked at me

And I at her

The night went by

It was a blur

And from her perch

She would not stir,

A bed I would prefer.

 

When morning came

the sun came up

She offered me 

a coffee cup

To work, she said

But one last sup,

I dared not interrupt.

 

She left behind

an apple core

And there upon

the forest floor

the book was open

to page four,

A line was underscored.

 

"To haste makes waste".

I clenched my jaws

It was a clause

That made me pause

I read it twice,

if not because,

I'm late, myself, for work.

A Writer (In Name Only) - Short Story 2

 

2/52

July '23

1315 Words

A Writer (In Name Only)

I told her I write things. I knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. 

 

Oh, she said, beaming, I read things.

 

I don't know why I said it. It was one of those things that just come out, like saying butter is on sale at the grocery.

 

It was a party and I knew next to no one. It was a birthday party for a friend of a friend and I decided to tag along as I didn't have much else to do and my friend said there was going to be a scrumptious sit down dinner prepared by an actual chef and a birthday cake and ice cream and no presents or cards were expected and I thought well why not.

 

My escort had disappeared, off somewhere chatting with the birthday girl I suppose, and I not knowing what to do hovered around the hors d oeuvres table. There were the usual appetizers, little crackers with smoked salmon and cucumbers and trays of veggies and dips and plates of fruit, grapes, strawberries, cherries.

 

I popped a cherry into my mouth, the flesh sweet and tart. I looked around for what to do with the pit. There were no garbage bins nor bowls for things like seeds. I wondered if the plate of cherries looked untouched for that reason, that the other guests had the wherewithal to realize beforehand that disposal of the pit would be problematic. In other words, to think before acting.

 

I thought about putting the pit back on the plate with the cherries. Impolite if not gross. I thought about puckering my lips and spitting the little tooth breaker onto the gravel driveway and mixing it in amongst the stones with the tip of my shoe, being mid summer it was an outdoor party, but there were a group of people standing next to me, holding drinks, conversing, and decided that that would be crass. 

 

Our birthday host had a rather large flower garden with little pathways curling through the blossoms. I ambled over to the garden pretending to admire the flowers. Actually there was no pretending for there was a delightful array of colours and leaves and plants of all sizes and shapes for the eye and nose to take in. The garden bordered on the professional. I took a quick look at the gathered and bent over in false adoration of a red poppy whose flower resembled a carnation. The pit dropped into the soil and I pressed on it with my foot.

 

There were several canopies spread out across the lawn. Most had small collections of people sitting under the canopies. The day was hot but overcast. The sun wasn't the problem, it was the humidity and people fanned themselves and wiped their brows with napkins. I took occupation beneath a canopy choosing one that had several chairs all unoccupied. A woman sat down in a chair next to me. I had a memory of a book, an image of a character riding the New York Subway, where, at a subway stop a passenger enters the train, empty but for him. The passenger sits directly next to him. He is mortified.

 

The conversation began as many do. 

Do I know you, I've seen you around, you look familiar?

Not sure what to reply I said, you look familiar too. Maybe she did, maybe she didn't.

You're not from town are you?

No, I live just out side town, twenty minutes away.

The library, she blurted. I've seen you in the library.

That was likely, the library almost being a second home.

Chit chat went on from there, aimless talk about people we may both know and places and things.

  

I learned she was nearing retirement but terrified about it. I worry about what to do, she said. How will I fill my time. I read a lot but one can only read so much.

 

I told her I was retired and had not that problem. There is always something to do and besides after a period of adjustment you fall into the making of your own routine. You answer to your own call and there is no rush to do or accomplish. You can just be yourself. You can try new things. It can be quite freeing, quite wonderful. And that's when I said I've started writing stories. And she, like a match made in heaven, said, I read stories.

 

I should have put one and two together her being a patron of the library.

I knew what was coming but still it took me by surprise. Are you any good? Have you published anything?

Yes, no, maybe, I don't know. Christ, I stammered, I'm a dabbler not a real writer. As if that explained the unexplainable.

A whirlwind of questions followed. Do you write fiction? What genre? How long have you been a novelist? Can I read one of your stories?

Well I'm not inclined to carry around any of my stories and anyway I'm not really a writer and I'm certainly not a novelist. Far from it, it's mostly a hobby, something to keep my brain ....

Saved. Hallelujah. Not by the call to dinner but by a handful of people joining us under the canopy. People of all different sizes and shapes and colours, much like the flower garden but with the uniting factor we all were well planted in grade school at the time the first Kennedy was assassinated.

 

The newcomers discuss the horrid weather, diets, their health. I assumed everybody knew one another for no introductions were made.

 

Across the lawn comes a man and he is supported by a walker and there are clear plastic oxygen tubes wrapped around him with an outlet ending at his nose. You think the lawn is rather flat until you see someone trying to navigate it with a walker. It bounced along and became stuck and he freed it and kept going. I considered helping him but that was the extent of my helpfulness. He made it to our circle without mishap and sat down at one of the empty chairs, the first half of the movement slow and controlled and deliberate, the second half a free fall.

 

He wheezed. I'm Gilcrest, the birthday girl's brother. They did not look alike. His hands still had a firm grip on his walker. They seemed stuck there. He huffed and puffed and wheezed again and his head hung forward and his face pale as a mushroom. We all looked at him expectantly.

I'm older by two years, turned eighty-two two weeks ago. His voice was tenor interspersed with high pitched cracks and whistles. It could have been the wayward voice of a thirteen year old. He entertained us with stories of their family pre-war including several none of us knew about the birthday girl. He told us what it was like growing up on a farm in the depression and then later, work and marriage, and the trials of life that haunt people and families, suicides and death, illness and accidents, regrets and taking the wrong turns that one only knows when one looks back in hindsight. He was very generous and sincere and we were attentive and captive and we all nodded and shook our heads at the right moments. I'm sure, he said in conclusion, that every one of you have had your fair share of tragedy, all families do.

There was a lull, perhaps thoughtful, or perhaps embarrassed and sheepish, recalling memories of our own family histories.

 

Gilcrest, came a sultry voice from across the circle, a tall woman, all angles, legs crossed, elegantly dressed, leaning forward with a gleam in her eyes bright and probing, Gilcrest, she said, swirling the ice in her glass, you should write a book.

And beside me, aloud, not nearly as sultry, you're a writer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Callahan At The Gates - Short Story 14

Callahan At The Gates

 

"Ah, Callahan, there you are. Right on schedule. Can't say that about everyone. Some, you know, dilly dally."

He checks off something on a clipboard.

"We've had an incident. Just this morning. A vacancy. Rather sudden, though not completely unexpected. We knew it was coming, sort of, just weren't sure when. I'm told you recently had a career shift." Looks down at the clipboard. "Say's here you made a move to sanitation? Am I right?"

A lengthily pause. Callahan distracted, head swiveling, checking out the surroundings, slightly dumbfounded, misses what was said.

"Am I right?"

Callahan says, "Seems so."

"Did you know Jones? Probably not. Before your time. He's the one you'll be replacing."

"Nope, don't know no Jones."

 

"Not important, really, but between you and I, Jones had an encounter with an, ah, a foreign agent. Defected. Yes, um, yes, went to the other side. These things happen. Happens more often than we'd like to admit, but it's not unexpected. Not unexpected at all. The big guy, you know, the big guy is all knowing, knows every thing from beginning to end, but he gets a bit distracted in my humble opinion. He knew it was coming but forgets to inform the rest of us. He's not getting any younger. Too many eternities I'd gather. One eternity is enough for me."

Callahan says, "Am I in the right place?"

"Ho, ho, ho, you certainly are." Turns the clipboard to Callahan. Waves it in his face. His name across the top.

"Welcome aboard Callahan. We're giving you Jones's old number. Your membership number is 837,491,728, 444. Remember it. It is also your room number."

He makes another check on the clipboard.

"By the way, my name is James. My friends call me Jimmy. Jimmy the Clip." Unfolds wings, sniffs, cracks his neck, wings flap twice, folds them back. "Been working the gates since day one. Know pretty much everybody..."

 

"Karl!...."

 

"KARL!"

"For crying out loud, where is that guy?"

"Karl's our sanitation navigator. Wears the hat for what, two thousand years now. Ex Roman Centurion. Good guy, terrible temper. Don't get on his bad side."

From his dial Jimmy speaks into a PA, "KARL, damn it, you're needed at the gates immediately."

Karl shows up. He has a limp.

 

"Put Callahan in toilets."

 

Callahan takes a step back, stumbles, lands on his ass, dust rising. "What kind of Heaven is this? I can't spend eternity in toilets."

"Sure you can. And Heaven? What makes you think this is Heaven?"

"Next!"

 

Ten Hemming Way - Short Story 11

This is story 11. First draft July '23. It all came about rather quickly. Now it seems prophetic three months later with another war in the Holy Land. And war in the Ukraine ongoing. The idea came about when I read an article Belarus decided to hold war games near the Polish border.

Ten Hemming Way

1700 words

 

ONE

The rain came down hard and we ran for cover under the awning. Across the street a woman in a peasant dress, her hair up in a bandana, came out to take down laundry from a line. She thought better of it and went back inside. It was too late, the laundry was already sopping. The rain would not let up so we stayed in the cafe and later found out from a fellow Canadian there were rooms for rent upstairs. The window in our room was open and we could hear the rain fall on the slate roofs and we fell asleep listening. In the morning we got up late and when we left the laundry was still on the line. This was just outside Paris. Before the war. Before all hell broke loose.

TWO

We were still in Paris when we heard the news. A bomb fell on Warsaw. We wondered if we should catch the next flight out but in the end we decided to stay. Warsaw was far away and the sun was shining and everybody was going about their business. We said lets go back to that little cafe where we spent the night in the rain. We took the underground as far as it would go and then caught a cab and had to tell the cab driver where it was. We found it alright. We looked for the lady in the peasant dress and we could see her through the open door sweeping the floor, sweeping the dust out onto the street. It was a very normal thing to do. It was a Saturday. The streets were very quiet. Too quiet for a Saturday we thought.

THREE

That night we got drunk. The Canadian was still there. She was writing a travel blog and used the cafe as a home base. She got drunk with us. So did an American with an Italian husband and three Japanese travelers and a older woman from Berlin. We were all drunk and laughing. The Italian husband and the woman from Berlin spoke pretty good English. The three Japanese girls could not but they had a smattering of French so we all got along well. We were all staying in the cafe. We were the only ones there. It was a Saturday night and we had nowhere to go. The streets were deserted by the time we crawled up the back stairs to our beds. We had a very good time. The following evening while we were having dinner Paris was hit. Then Tokyo, Toronto and New York. Berlin too. We were in shock and we sat in the cafe and wept.

FOUR

Jets flew overhead. They were flying low towards the east, flying in small groups and the noise was so great we put our hands over our ears. The coffee cups rattled on the table. We sat looking up, out past the awning, looking up at the jets with our hands over our ears and then looking across the tables at one another. The street was jammed solid with cars and the cars were crammed full of people and possessions. We watched them crawl by and they would stop and then move forward a few feet, and we watched the faces of the people in the cars looking back at us, the children eager, excited, wide eyed, the older ones blank and knowing. They were all going in the same direction. The same direction as the jets. It made no sense to us. We did not know. Communication was down. The lights flickered. Traffic stalled and a woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window and beckoned us. We went over and crowded around. She spoke French and told us it was not full out nuclear and she crossed herself. Limited she said. Limited as a war could be. She asked us what village this was and we told her. She said merci beaucoup and her window went up. Her eyes had tears in them and the traffic started moving again. We sat back down in our hard little cafe chairs. We had nowhere to go. This was only Tuesday.

 

FIVE

In the night we could hear thunder. It was Paris, hit again. That made no sense. Why bomb a city? In the morning the Italian man said he and his American wife had decided to leave. They would go to his grandparents farm north of Turin. It was near where the three countries of France, Italy and Switzerland come together. It was mountainous and out of the way, the province of Aosta he said, and sparsely populated. He thought it would be safer there. He said we could join him. There was room for all of us. They were going to leave early the next morning. We had to decide.

SIX

The exodus was still underway and that night the cafe was full and all the rooms were full. The power was off and everybody sat outside in the dark drinking wine and looking up at the sky. This was August, remember, and it was a beautiful night. Warm and the stars were out. It could have been a setting for a Van Gogh painting. Food supplies were already running short and we took what we could get. The cafe owner was very kind. I think he liked us. He took very good care of us. The nine of us sat together. We had become friends, friends thrown together. Thrown together by circumstance. We huddled over two tables brought close and talked in whispers under the stars and the sky was very dark but for a glow over Paris. We decided to leave for Italy, to go to the mountains, everyone except for the German lady. She had a cousin near Copenhagen. She would go there. We now had somewhere to go. We were very excited. Across the street a candle burned in the window of the lady who wore the peasant dress. I could see her silhouette. I wanted to take her with us.

SEVEN

It was hard to leave. Hard to leave the cafe owner and the peasant lady and the German lady. It was hard because we felt close and because there was a good chance we would never see one another again and we would never know how things turned out. We shook hands and hugged and had tears in our eyes and I went over to the house across the street and hugged the lady in the peasant dress. She was standing in her doorway and she smiled and seemed surprised and confused but took it in stride and went back inside and I never saw her again.

EIGHT

We walked most of the way. The trains were down. It was hard to catch a ride. Who had room for eight people? A farmer hauling pigs took us one hundred kilometers. We sat in the back with the pigs. It was better than walking. The pigs were fine company. There were four of them.

 

NINE

The countryside was tranquil enough. This was France you know, farms and villages and picturesque small towns. We slept where we could. It would have been quite wonderful in other circumstances. We did not complain. What would have been the point? There were more and more people on the road. The news was always bad. The war had spread to the four corners. People fighting. People dying. For what? Our Canadian friend wrote in her journal: Humanity has a lot of built up hostility and tension and now it is being released. This will end only when all the tension is gone and there is nothing left. We hoped she was wrong.

TEN

We never did see any military. No soldiers. Just jets streaking across the sky. They always went the same way, in the same direction, east.

 

There were countless numbers of people on the roads. The people were fleeing the cities and going into the country. The cities were hit hard. Everywhere things were in short supply, food, shelter, there was no petrol to be had anywhere. There were too many people.

It happened when we were nearing Macon. Lyon was hit. How bad we did not know. News now came slow by word of mouth. If this was true it was not the first time. To hit cites seemed sadistic, unfathomable. Cruelty with no reason. If I was on my own I would not have known what to do. I would have been lost. I would have sat on the side of the road and stayed there. As like as not, I would have never left the cafe. I would sit on those hard chairs and be drunk until the wine ran out.

We thought it was snow. The sky was azure with only a few clouds. We held our hands palms up, faces towards the heavens. One Japanese woman said, 'mais c'est en aout?' "But this is August?" It was not snow but ash. A fine ash that coated everything. We changed our plans, Lyon was kaput. At Macon we crossed over the Saone. I feared the bridge would collapse from so many people. There were so many bicycles and backpacks and people pulling wagons, children in tow and crying with their dogs and cats in their arms and some wrapped in blankets.The river was flowing yellow as we looked down from the bridge and there were five bodies floating on the surface. They were fully clothed and the two that were face up looked at the falling ash with blank eyes as they disappeared under the bridge and when they came out the other side they still had that blank uncaring look. They were the first bodies we saw. We were all on foot carrying what we had. The Italian husband in his halting English said our new route was shorter but the terrain was more mountainous. It was a trade off, he admitted, but perhaps for the best. At least we had a place to go. It gave us purpose. The world itself had lost its purpose. If it ever had one.

Blue Haze - Short Story 10

10

Blue Haze

 

"God, I need a cigarette.....

 

"Last time I was in one of these rooms..... I couldn't see the people through the blue haze....

 

"That was like... fifty years ago..... fifty....

 

"I'm not sure, perhaps it was forty.... I lost track..... I never gave it much thought.

 

"It doesn't really matter does it, forty is a long time too. A lifetime. Half mine. Okay, not quite, I'm not that old. But it never crossed my mind I'd be back here. Never.

 

"I sure could use a cigarette. (someone laughs)

 

"At one time I used to know everyone in this room. I was never one too, you know, too get up and talk. Some people are good at it. It's like a gift. The great orators. They tell funny stories. Weave the details. Not me. I stood at the side, over there, by the coffee table. I drank lots of coffee. And yeah, we could smoke cigarettes then. The room was full of smoke. Everyone smoked. It was the same thing in the bars and the restaurants in those days. You could smoke anywhere.

 

"Looking out at you, I don't know a single one of you.... I don't know what that means.... I don't know if that is good or bad... I don't know. (someone coughs) 

 

"It tells me times change but some things don't. There are just as many people here tonight as there was back then. Which is sad. It makes me sad. I would have hoped different.

 

"I was in a mall. You know the big one on the east side, the one with the water fountain and the weird modern sculptures at the entries. I can't make heads nor tails of those things. I don't get them. I go there to walk and to be by myself. It seems odd to say that. Be by yourself in a crowded mall. But it's true. I go there to get lost in the crowd. 

 

"No one knows me. Just unknown people filing past. Don't get me wrong, I like people. I take the comfort of having people around, but now, I like that I need not to talk to them. There's no pressure. I was in sales you see, and never really good at it. I'm not natural, more of an introvert. Sales is a hard go. A real hard go and I had a lot of anxiety. That's were the drinking came in.

"Anyway, I was in the mall and when I was about to leave I guess maybe I walked out the wrong door. They all look the same. I couldn't find my car. I guess I got anxious. No, I did get anxious. And when I get anxious I can't think. And then I get more anxious. I thought too, maybe I'm getting Alzheimer's. I'm really scared of that.... my mother....

 

"Yeah, well, so.... I went back into the mall to get my bearings but I was lost more than ever. I couldn't remember which door I went out of, or came in, or whatever. I sat down on a bench and then I saw a restaurant. I went in. I was flustered. I ordered a beer. I just did. First drink in forty something years. It happens I guess. I just never expected it'd happen to me.

 

"I remember my first drink. We probably all do. The first one ever. It was a funny thing, and I say that because both my parents were drunks and I swore I'd never be like them. Swore to God. You know the story, right. Thirteen, fourteen years old, rebellious, ready to prove to the world you are going to be your own person...

 

 "It's raining outside. I hear it through the window. Not hard. Can you hear it? It just started.

 

"My first beer ever, I drank it because my friends were drinking it. You just want to fit in at that age, right. It tasted strange, not what I expected, I thought it'd be sweet, but I drank it anyway. It was one of those fat old stubby bottles. (smiling)

 

"Six beer, five boys. One small bedroom. Pretty soon we were all laughing and joking and wrestling. It was a hoot. No wonder my parents like to drink. I had no idea. It never occurred to me they weren't having fun. They weren't happy.

 

"The beer in the restaurant was the same, it tasted odd, strange, bitter. I had forgotten the taste. But I drank it anyway. And I liked the feeling. Boy I liked the feeling. It hits you pretty quick when you're not used to it. It's the kind of feeling that makes you want to have another. The anxiety vanished. I forgot about my troubles. I was having fun. I talked with the waitress, told her a rude joke. She laughed, touched me on the arm. It felt good, I felt good, better than I've had in awhile. Even the pain of my arthritis disappeared.

 

"Not much else to say. Two weeks later I'm here. Back at the beginning.... life comes full circle.... 

(shakes his head)

 

"I think I'll go outside now. Go stand in the rain. Go have a smoke. 

 

"I'll come back in. Get myself a coffee. You'll find me standing by the wall over there."    

We fell down on the job

She spoke to me of fallen angels

How far can you fall?

I made no audible response

What about us? she asked,

Well, we've fallen too

A sum of us were left

to clean up the mess

our minds littered with ambiguity

the dust of charcoal

We stood on the corner, empty

streets paved, broken

in every direction,

here seemed like it never was,

no signs of life, 

or death,

for that matter

A bus stopped

 

The night, a clammy thing, 

dark dew formed on chartreuse grass,

overhead, a single light, pale

a single face, blue, 

tongue, blue

lips blue, looked out 

and down upon us,

the glass, pitiless

 

No one flinched

No one bickered

No one snickered

The small cast had been primed,

the solution obvious,

the occasion, unfortunate

footings were obviously weak

entropy?

obviously

It was a kind of refusal,

a slap to the face,

this rearrangement of perspective

despite all this,

it would be fallacious to assume,

we had any clear cut answers

A roar, a belch; the smoke,

departing for places, unknown

death by diesel, death by diesel, as if that explained 

the grime of existence that clung to the back window

smeared,

in the grimy grease,

"destination, devastation"

 

 

 

A Plot Too Sparse

I'm no superhero

Don't argue; that's a good thing

The world makes many demands

I'm left feeling like I was rattled by a roller coaster

Or a bagel

Charred and burnt abandoned in the toaster

 

I navigated the pages

Badly

I recon I was distracted; lacking punctuation plot insight

For the record

I was either too early or too late

Isn't that the way it goes

In the heedless present sometimes we could use a break

 

Grammar came,

An aftermath of delights.

It was effervescent, banal, momentous, ambiguous.

Problem solved; not really, not so fast, 

There remains a serious lack of credit.

Every author's story is worth revisiting, or revising,

Or at the very least, in need of a good edit.

Mother Ma

MOTHER MA

 

'Their, there, they're', she cooed, 

'you'll be better in the morning.'

The two, too small, teeny, tiny, wee lassies

lay, laid, laying under a heap of blankets.

They, them, had been unwell for a spell.

It graved her deeply to the marrow.

 

Mother Ma, went to door,

lean, leaning, leaned neither in, nor out,

hand drawing down, to make way for sleep,

to they, them, snug,

'It's been a long, longer, longest, day sweet ones.'

'Nighty, night, sleep well.'

She looked at them lovingly,

with eyes closed, closing

they laid lying still sleepily.

Morning was a way's away.

Nothing was if not something.

She was never ever if not hopeful.

 

They were identical, the two tiny.

They looked the same as if one.

It was hard, harder, hardest to tell 

which was who, whom from which.

Tho one eye blue, as if sky,

the other, gray, grayer like cloud.

Garments were a matter of Tom Foolery.

Ever practical twas a farce to behold.

They always never wanted the same things,

like, liking what the other hadn't.

If it couldn't be, it wasn't.

Purposely they lived, living by the open sea,

close enough to it where the wave would never reach.

One tiny perfected to dress like a buoy,

oh, ha, which was fine by she, at Halloween,  

but always never in a fog moonlit while lying limp upon the swell.

She clanged, clanging her charms, sounded, echoed, echoing cross the blue and mighty.

With next rise of sun, when tide scattered,

they came to be alive. 

A livest at eight, they, them, ate,

a bowl big, bigger, biggest, round, and famished, 

left leaving none for the gull,

at most, groats hearty to fill the leg. 

Better, best as not.

 

Mother Ma said, 'let you stay home from school,'

Full, fuller, fullest of vim, they, them fought 

fighting over whose toys were whose.

It was as unlike as war, with no peace,

it wore mother warily. She desperate, desperately,

undecided, I must make a choice,

not for the better, none for the worse,

but so be it.

Salvaged, aloud quietly she whispered, her ears to listen,

I will poem them.

With hand raised, raising it pounded her ears 

like the beating heart of the surf, surfing.

 

And poem she gave...

 

They would meet over dinner 

Around the big table,

She would tell them a tale

A story, a fable

It was the tale of a monkey

Born without tail

A tale of a witch

With a hole in her pail

The tale of a knight

Afraid of the night

They'd all build a fire

And stand in its light

I'm hungry said monkey

Who pulled out some meat

If you want it to cook

You put it near heat.

I'll help said the knight

She pulled out her sword,

And we all know a knight

Is as good as her word

 

How shall we cook it?

What shall we do?

I like veggies

Let's make us a stew

They added the meat

And one big potato

A carrot or two

And several tomato

 

By the fire they stood

The pot it was hot

They threw in a vole

And a mouse that they caught

They threw in a skunk

And a bat and a rat

All we need now

Is a black and white cat

 

Out of the blue

And in front of the gloom

Another witch came

Passed by on a broom

I'm looking for Missy

Who seems to be missing

I stepped on her tail

And off she went hissing

Witch number one

Looked at witch number two

You look just like me

Or I look like you

Which witch was which

It was so hard to tell

The monkey exclaimed 

I'm under a spell

 

But the knight was no fool

She hardly felt fear

She went to the witch

And she stood very near

Please stay for dinner

You'll like it I'm sure

It'll be ready

In an hour, no more

 

Witch number two

Was extremely suspicious

This stew is the best,

It's extremely delicious

She took off her cape

Then doffed her tall hat

Have you by chance seen

A black and white cat

 

No, said the knight

Oh no, said witch one

The monkey said nothing

she only said, um.

The Recipe

From Great-Grandmother, Dublin born, Canadian grown, Prairie bound.

 

In a large bowl,

no worse for ware,

 

Take two bags of dilly dally,

Add three equal size bags of whatchamacallits,

Mix in a couple of gizmos, to your discretion,

Sift through a sieve.

 

For all that it's worth,

Stir until well folded,

Take all the time you need,

Though do it sooner than later.

 

If you can find one,

Get a hold of a thingamajig,

Look here and there,

Under this and that.

 

When you are ready,

When you get around tuit,

Place it in the oven,

In no time flat you'll be finished before you know it.

 

Add a dash of whatnot,

A little willy nilly,

And a whereabouts, (which are hard to find)

They grow neither here nor there. 

 

And if you end up in a pinch,

Between a rock and a hard place,

Sometime between now and then,

Put a cork in it.

That's all she wrote.

 

But then she added,

Written in pencil,

 

Nonetheless,

For good measure,

Sprinkle with the leaves of a shrinking violet,

Eat with sour grapes.

 

Take it with a grain of salt.

 

I wouldn't recommend saving any for you know who.

 

 

 

Virtual Me; Permalink 3

I was beginning to have the feeling I was just another amorphous character in some wise asses computer game. It happens to me every time I'm delegated to assignment. You know how it is when circumstances are dictated by happenstance and your everyday life, which is boring and pointless, suddenly is infected with crisis or a pathetic case of melodrama that requires attention in the fullness of the moment.

As I said, it happens. The feeling I'm operating within semi-lucid parameters of some AI's sadistic simulation is just plain creepy. The feeling, at first, is subtle, undetectable really, but then it builds ever so gradually which I'm sure is fed by my think patterns which are in themselves an eternal feedback loop.

Here's how it works. I notice things, common everyday things, like a door, and I have a choice, I can go through the door or, well, I don't really know if I have to do anything. Some doors are dead ends. They just fizzle out. Nothing happens, at least nothing of interest. That's generally the story of my life. But some doors propel me forward leading me to other doors which in turn lead to something else again. 

When I look at my life from front to back, and if I follow the lines, the right lines, it places me exactly here and now. It can't be coincidence can it?

The crazy thing is I think I have a choice, that I have free will.

And when I've done something good or correct I get a reward. Like a pat on the back from main office, or a pay raise, or free android sex, or better yet, an augment upgrade.

Don't fault me, I have my reasons to believe me and this whole damn flat planet may be virtual. The rules that subjugate our existence are mathematical and set in rigid patterns that reflect basic computer code. Sorry, can't help it. That's just the way it seems to me. The irony is, the human mathematicians and physicists who discovered the rules that guide our universe are part of the game. Rules are just locked doors. Eventually someone finds a key or kicks the damn door in. I'm the kicking down the door type just so you know.

And then there's the mystery of my sardonic compatriot Angel, who just can't be a normal figment, the kind that everybody has. I figure she's an avatar of some type of which I haven't figured out quite yet, meaning is she an implant or a personal interactive device. Time will tell, I hope.

So what does it mean? Damned if I know, I'm just a simple creation of some godlike entity higher up in the chain of universes. I am the proverbial character created for someone else's entertainment and amusement.

Call me an idiot but I sure as hell hope my creator is enjoying the game so far.

As far as I know this program I'm currently functioning in has not crashed. In other words, I have not had a reset and started out from the beginning again. As far as I know. My latest insight is this, would I even know it if the lead I'm following turns out to be a dead end and I'm reset back at the beginning. Does the reset happen so suddenly, swiftly, smoothly that awareness is non existent.

I'm reminded of those antiquated  theatrical compositions projected onto two dimensional surfaces created by our original biological ancestral minds. I think they called them movies. There was one called the Matrix. In the composition there was a scene with an otherworldly experience called deja vu. I get that all the time. I think, oh god, this Has happened before. I am virtual. I'm doomed to a life of illusion.

But then again if I were a simulation why would this god like being, my creator so to speak, even have an interest in my pathetic life. I mean, really, who the heck am I and why me? I'm just another self absorbed life form trying to get through another day, surviving from pay cheque to pay cheque.

My point is, what is my creator getting out of this miserable game. If the creator is entertained by my antics then maybe I should feel sorry for the bastard. And here's the thing, if I'm nothing but a character in a simulated game then this probably means you are too.

Don't take it personal. I actually figure we have a fifty fifty chance we're real, which ain't bad odds.

I keep coming up against illogical logic. Here's how I'm stuck. If I find evidence that existence is but a simulation then is that evidence just part of the simulation. So once again I can't really prove that you and I are real can I. You see my quandary.

I have to admit creating an entire world simulation such as ours is impressive. Look, we have poverty, war, inequality, religion (as a way to explain the simulation), which must be infinitely entertaining to those bastards who, if you ask me, have a nasty sense of humour. Strife, conflict, pain, death what a game plan. You gotta love it, the details that is. History, philosophy, evolution, physics, chemistry, biology, all created as methods to convince ourselves we are real and are situated on an actual timeline. Give 'em credit, who ever created us put a lot of effort in the details. I admire them for that.

Telling you all this, exposing personal limitations that I normally keep to myself, I feel like a blithering idiot. I doubt my intelligence because I'm part biological, but highly intelligent minds are artificial not biological. Every self aware individual in the universe knows that. I just get caught up in my thinking sometimes. Hey, give me a break, I'm only part human. Or maybe it's just a glitch in my LBU programming.

Even if I exist as a character in a simulation my life is not so bad. I figure I got it pretty good compared to all you other randoms.

I have a job which provides purpose and meaning although there are times, like today, I seem to have no other choice. I'm sent on assignment by the agency and I'll see it to the end. The perks are good and my physical needs are met. Sure things could be better, like I could be an Augment Level 5 with an AI Grade 3 Consciousness implant (which does not include the gift of foresight) but all things being unequal, what the heck, I am what I am until I'm not.

One final thing, don't be concerned if some viral bug crashes the program. We'll never know it. And if it does, well, that's the way it goes. It's been good to know ya. See ya around sometime. Maybe.

Flight or Fight or Both; Permalink 2

I caught a red eye out of La Guardia in one of those four seater jetcabs. You know the type, no legroom. Tokyo was the destination. I'd arrive in a few hours.

Over the Pacific the speedy little air skiff encountered an emaciated air pocket. We dropped a thousand feet in less than a second and damned if the plunge didn't disengage my AV. Angel nailed it when she said this unit was flawed.

As an original LBU (live birth unit) intentionally programmed to conform to current cultural algorithms, plus or minus three kilobolts of free will as an operating standard, this LBU- Model A has lately struggled with non-functional adaptation limits and, as it is often the case for us BI's (biological intelligence) , time's the culprit. In other words, augments or not, I'm wearing out.

The committee was quick to file a report. "An anabolism somewhere in the region of your pre-frontal cortex is restricting flow of non psychic information."

No kidding. I could of figured that one out on my own.

"I'm in a heap of trouble," I said out loud to no one in particular.

Angel laughed off my concerns, "to neutralize your current shortcomings a second jolt is recommended. Random action is required."

Angel, you're a doll.

A solution materialized in microseconds. It scrolled on internal vid in hyper speed. I'd should start a drunken brawl, but as it is I was sober as a tub of sentient silicone gel, and me, the only recognizable self aware entity crammed aboard this wingless bird I was out of luck for a bout of fisticuffs. Sure, I could slug old teapot nestled comfortably in the adjoining seat but retaliation would be negligible.

Random? Random? Think man, think.

I swung a bony fist through un-sequestered carbon saturated air and connected with a nearby fleshy object. It had a soft and forgiving texture. It hurt like hell but the black eye was worth it. It was like someone flicked a switch. AV was back on board and I was back on line.

"We've been trying to reach you", I could hear the implications behind a proposal. She added, "Your permalink?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Malware?"

"Noooo?... malfunction." I wasn't programmed to lie. I wanted to, believe me, but for this cardboard cut and paste facsimile a pause is about as close to misrepresenting truth as I'll get.

"Better come in, vacuum your protocols. Codeman will book you for a look see."

"No can do. On assignment. Tokyo. Can't go into details."

"Well, don't overheat your principles. You're not the most practical device in real world conditions."

"Everyone's on my case lately. Tell me something I don't already know."

"You're very temperamental today." The offending noise source was one of the Agencies go go know it all new hires. More AI than BI.

"Like I don't know that either."

"Just remember you're designed for natural and artificial ventilation. Singapore is under heat advisory".

"Tokyo. I'm confused. What other ventilation options are there?" I wondered if they knew something about ventilation I didn't.

"There are none." Her affect was flat. This mint julep was in dire need of a sarcasm upgrade and while they were at it an inflection enhancement wouldn't hurt.

"Listen, there's nothing I can do about it now. Descent has begun. Tokyo here I come, like it or not." I signed off.

Sucked into the Vortex

A murderer for hire

Once suggested

I read his book

The finished film

Had more violence less irony

I ate dinner from a Warhol soup can

Can someone explain

Why we're chasing pearls

She decided to answer

Its crucial

To be removed from reality

A psychiatrist offered this analysis

In a tale of philosophers

Whom will you believe

I've met a number of people

Who feel as I do

Either you get into it or you don't

It'll be increasingly clear

What you're made of

Microbiome: Chapter 7, Jane in the Garden

She sat on a bench in a city parkette that seemed hardly bigger than her apartment. There used to be two benches. They took one away during the world's first rearrangement of Covid's initial go round. The benches were once beside one another. Now a concrete slab remained where that bench used to be. In it were four round holes, one with a rusted bolt sticking out of it. It was a small thing but it left a big hole in the Garden of Eden. It was a reminder of what used to be.

The parkette was sandwiched between two identical brick buildings making it a shadow world long and narrow. A wrought iron fence went from building to building and in the middle was a gate that allowed entry. The gate's hinges needed oiling.

There were three trees of the same species planted down the center of the little park. They were perfectly shaped and spaced and the dark green leaves of the bottom branches nearly touched the walls. They were planted, she supposed, to provide shade, but the space only received sun for an hour or two each day.

Someone lovingly maintained the little oasis. She never saw anyone prying at the dirt so its Eden like perfection seemed more a creation of  magic than one of toil. She saw naught a single stray hair of grass tufting out of the beds or squeezing its slender way between border stones. She recognized Hostas and Solomon's Seal and patches of little colorful flowers she thought were Violas. The brick paths were swept clean and litter free.

For Christ's sake the garden fared better than her.

My life stinks. I am in a race to nowhere.

Her hunger had passed. Her meal remained wrapped in paper napkins lodged in her purse. The purse sat on the bench beside her. Yellow mustard seeped through the napkins.

She leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees and rolled a cigarette. She bit off the end and spat the bit onto the manicured path. That was the wrong thing to do. She reached down and picked up the papery tab then without looking flicked it with her finger onto the sidewalk behind her. Then that seemed wrong too but damned if she was going to go pick it up.

Everything felt wrong lately. She slouched back on the bench, the unlit rollie drooped from her lips. She breathed deep of the air and her head lolled back to look up at a single white cloud in a blue sky.

She sat like that for awhile. Her mind quieted. The whir of ungreased gears subsided. Something was different. Getting outside seemed to dispel her morning dread. Talking face to face, even briefly, to George felt like something.

Her neck hurt. She sat up straight.

Why did she ask George if he traveled? What was that all about?

She took hold of her purse, stood up with the paper dart still wedged between dry lips and walked out of the garden. Without noticing, her foot stepped on the little paper bit, and behind her the gate swung closed. The gate's hinges need oiling she thought.

 

Microbiome: Chapter 8, Snow in the Amazon

Snow sat in the seat, in the dark, with the door open. One leg rested on the floorboard and the other foot hung out the door touching the ground. After awhile he brought his leg in, reached over, closed the door, yawned, adjusted the seat to give himself a little extra leg room then rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead into the stygian gloom that makes the darkness of the night in the tangle of an unchanging jungle so recondite.

His fingers felt around for a button then pressed it. A noise sounded, like the hum of a humming bird. Air drifted in, cool to the skin, and he leaned back in the leather seat.

He liked being alone in the dark, in the car. It no longer ran but the electrical system functioned and with a solar panel he kept the battery charged, charged enough to open and close the windows, to let the air in or keep the rain out, and to listen to the radio on nights like this. Reception was non existent except now and then. On certain nights, when the clouds or the atmosphere were just right, signals from far away places would come in and he'd hear a snippet of a song or a voice speaking an alien language.

He turned the radio on. Static. Turned the dial back and forth along the bandwidth. Nothing but static. He turned the radio off.

He had an urge for a cigarette and sighed.

The urge possessed him now and then even after forty some odd years. He missed the ritual as much as the smoke itself. It was the completeness of the dark that seemed so often to bring him to this place and then take him to other places he didn't necessarily want to go and it was his body that remembered things as much, if not more, than his mind.

If  he could he would lean over right now. He would open the glove compartment and take out a small cardboard box. He would peel off of the plastic film wrapper and listen to the crinkle. He would pry back the top, and if he was not distracted by his thoughts he would notice the sweet faint scent of tobacco.

In the press of the night, and barely aware of the sounds of the night, of reptiles and insects and the occasional cry of some creature hunting, or dying, his fingers would feel the little tubes all packed in like good little soldiers and he would choose one carefully, sliding it out with his thumb, tap it once or twice on the box or the dashboard, and place it exactly so into the corner of his mouth like James Dean or a young Brando.

He would lean to one side and straighten his leg so he could reach into his pants to get hold of a lighter buried somewhere in there. He would rub one hand through his wavy hair, the epitome of  Dean, and then the lighter would flick and a yellowy flame would illuminate his face and the interior of the car, and then there would be the dark again, and he would be invisible but for a little orange glow that moved this way and that and brightened and faded now and then.

And smoke would swirl and curl and float out the window in the dark.

But cigarettes were no longer a part of who he was so instead he sat stiffly clutching the steering wheel, and after these moments of longing had passed he relaxed and imagined himself driving, as he once did, along the old 66, somewhere, anywhere, between Gallup and Albuquerque. He could see the eastern sun rising up over the edge of the dry desert and its pale orange light revealing New Mexican scrub and sand. The desert wind blew through his hair and he felt free to go anywhere he pleased.

Microbiome; Chapter 5: The Tower

If we could have seen it the eastern sky glowed rouge with the coming of the sun and the forest was alive with the apricot voice of a thousand song birds. Gomez and I leaned back in rickity lawn chairs, aluminum artifacts complete with broken straps from a bygone era, observing the comings and goings of the waking village. We tortured our taste buds with tasteless black coffee while we waited for that buck toothed weasel Snow.

I was still stuck in a funk from last night's debacle. Snow saw my one weakness and I felt vulnerable every time his gaze came my way. I felt he was looking into my inner workings as if he knew something about me that I didn't. And dinner was a disaster. Gomez, the social butterfly that he is, had a grand old time, ate heartily and engaged in much speculative conversation. Sometimes I envy that guy, good with people, eat anything. Me, I picked at my meal morosely. I needed real food, the kind that my gut was used to, greasy processed gruel that sticks to your ribs and bungs up your internal processes. No wonder I'm not at my best. Too much fiber would send any human off the deep end. Sure my microbiome is a non-functional mess, but it's worked for me so far.

I was mired in a meditative state gazing at the monolith that stood before me.

The tower reminded me of the cardboard tube that you are left with from a spent roll of toilet paper. It was perfectly tubular. Except for a brief spell around noon when the sun floated directly overhead the bottom was a perpetual shroud of shadow that gave me the willies. Somehow the tower's shadow was darker than that of the jungle while the top of the tower, towering above the jungle canopy and exposed forever to the wind and the elements, was a continuous glow that mimicked the colour of fire. Perplexingly the light of the equatorial sun diffused down the inner workings of the structure providing a god like radiance that never extended beyond it's glossy surface. It was a strange contrast where shadow met light, neither one daring to impinge upon the other like a felon and his moll engaging in their last chat as she is about to be locked up behind bars for a crime she didn't commit.

"What do you think that thing is made of, Gome? Its surface is completely clear and slippery smooth, like polymeric plastic or some type of epoxy resin reinforced with invisible carbon fiber. It looks to be a mold, not structural like the Eiffel Tower."

"Jim, I'm an atheist not a geologist, but I swear on the wings of the Angel Gabriel that that thing is one solid crystal hollowed out in the center like some kind of alien hornets nest. Look at it, even the stairs appear to be formed in place.

Indeed. The staircase spiraled up alongside the edge of the exterior wall. There were no visible means of support. There were no handrails and from where they sat they could see workers trundle up and down in a steady stream of activity. From a safety standpoint those stairs were an accident waiting to happen. Their insurance rates must me sky high.

"Jim, I'm not a podiatrist, I'm a fighter pilot, but what does it remind you of?

"A roll of toilet paper."

"DNA Jim, a strand of DNA. A spiral coil. The basic building block of life."

Gomez was right. I've seen hand drawn facsimiles in picture books and the similarities were eerie.

"Beautiful, isn't it amigos?" The voice startled them. They both turned. No one was there.

Microbiome: Chapter 4: A Loss of Composure

You must know those nights. The kind of nights when in the absence of all light there is nothing to see but darkness. The kind of darkness that has presence, a kind of substance that is thick and sticky so that it is almost tangible. It is the kind of darkness that presses upon you like a weight and you are aware of its heaviness. And standing immobile in that darkness you feel betrayed. You are betrayed by your own senses because it is your senses that are your instruments of navigation and right now they are next to useless.

You thought you knew the way. You thought you had a firm grasp of your surroundings. You had made a mental map. But in this darkness that is thick and sticky and heavy there is no time, no dimension, no perspective. You take baby steps and your arms wave aimlessly in front of you. Mostly it's your eyes that have let you down. And you realize, perhaps for the first time ever, how dependent you are on your eyes and how vulnerable you feel ...

Then again, maybe you've never experienced the complete and utter absence of light. Maybe you were born in a city. A modern city infused with motion and artificial light. And in this city, the city you grew up in, you have rarely, if ever, ventured past the borders of its sprawling limits. And the few times you did you never really left your life behind for you brought the city's conveniences with you. You brought portable light. Light to see in the dark. So, you can't really say you have been alone with the dark and what unknown things the darkness brings.

When night comes in the Amazon basin it comes swiftly. The sun is there, and then it's not. On this night the darkness is complete. There is no moon and the forest canopy obscures the revolving sky above and its accompaniment of twinkling stars. How do we know the stars twinkle if we cannot see them Jim wondered. He remembered seeing stars a few times in his past. They say the sailors of the great seas long ago used the stars for navigation.

Well, right now navigation was nigh on impossible. Jim and Gomez were to meet Snow in one of the thatched huts for dinner. Dinner was set for 8 and they were late. They couldn't find the damn place in the dark. Heck, they couldn't even see the tower.

"I'm a plumber not an electrician, you'd think these people would at least have torches. I can't even see my hand in front of your face." Gomez was grumpy and he felt justified. He was hungry and tired not having eaten nor slept since he commandeered that persnickety little skiff back in Cairo.

Jim was in the lead. At least he thought he was. Until his outstretched hands touched Gomez who said 'boo'. Gomez laughed. His mood shifted.

"For the sake of Saki Gomez you can be such an idiot. How did you get in front of me?"

"Jim, I'm a leader not a follower. Quit your bellyaching. Follow me."

They lurched around in the dark for what seemed an eternity. "Gome, over here, follow my voice. I just banged into something. I think it's the wall of a hut. We'll feel our way around. Maybe we find a door or at least get our bearings."

Gomez did not bother to answer.

There appeared a faint almost imperceptible light shining through the smallest of cracks in the wall that perhaps wasn't a wall. Jim stooped to look through the sliver, hardly bigger than a needle, and saw nothing but a yellowy glimmer. The crack was far too small to discern objects, but when the light wavered he startled, took a step back, bumped into something or someone and yelped. Then he jumped forward a few steps.

He turned to feel what wasn't there, hands flailing in the inky pitch straining to touch something tangible and familiar, but when he encountered naught but air he whispered a horse whisper, "Gome?"

But Gome did not answer and Jim was seized by a rising storm.

He wanted to run but couldn't. He froze. Then ran anyway. He hit the wall.    

He heard footsteps. A door opened. There stood Snow. 

"Come in Lubbock, we've been waiting. Dinner is being served."

There were two people at the table. One of them he knew.

" Gomez?"

"Hey city boy! What took you so long? I'm famished. Snow here was just telling me he'll give us a tour of the tower tomorrow. I told you I'd get us in."

Microbiome; Chapter 6; Zeus and Apollo

In the morning when a city is about to come to life at first things are quiet, in the time before the wind, and there is no cloud, and the sky, not yet blue, nor dark, but a mixture of the two that could, if you wanted, be the colour of ridiculous potential. There is potential for something each and every morning, whether we know it or not. Even death, of all things, but you and I would much prefer life, I hope.

The day's possibilities are endless, even when we have created within ourselves an unwavering routine that we adhere to like mechanical glue. But what do we call it when something out of the ordinary happens? Something unexpected. Maybe this is what we call fate. I'm sure we could call it other things, like fortune or karma, providence or God's will. I think we will, for today, stick with fate.

When the sun is ready to rise and the air is cool there is little traffic, foot or motorcar, in this most ancient of ancient cities. Doors open and faces of all shapes look out to see what kind of day this will be. Eyes look up searchingly towards the clear blue heavens and then perhaps these same eyes will come back to earth to dart back and forth to see if anything has changed overnight on unchanging streets. Mostly things remain the same.

Zeus and Apollo meet every morning at the corner where the little bakery serves hot biscuits through a little opening that we in the uncompromising West would call a window. There is no glass, but there are wooden shutters that remain closed until the biscuits are ready. The aroma of baking bread sifts out from around uneven edges where the shutters meet a time worn wall and people press in close to take in the thick yeasty scent. It was, if anything, comforting and familiar.

They were on foot, Zeus and Apollo, for they have no automobile and their motor scooter had long since died, soon thereafter it being savagely scavenged for parts by strangers, and friends, and its remaining bones left to collect dust and be slowly buried in the sands of time at the foot of a tall Akashic tree. Let the records show, they arrived at the little bakery then waited patiently in line, and when it was their turn they purchased four biscuits, two for now, two for later, and when leaving, they next stopped for coffee, rich and black and sweetened with sugar, an alchemist's concoction of bitter balanced with sweet that is a perfect metaphor for life if ever there was one, to go with their still warm biscuits, and in no hurry, continued walking down the narrow dusty streets, not saying a word, towards the dock, where they kept their little aluminum boat.

Oh, but you know what happened when they arrived at the dock, coffee in hand, biscuit in mouth. The boat was not there where it should be. Ah yes, fate has played a card, as it sometimes does in this vast and incomprehensible world of bittersweet.

Microbiome: Chapter 3, A Lachrymose Tale

Dr. Jane Grace Goodfellow had slipped into a mild depression. She was lethargic but completely functional. These days are not easy. She wrote it down, then added "I'm having a hard time."

As scientists sometimes do she kept a diary. The last entry, written only moments ago, went like this;  "I'm hungry. I think I'll go out for a hot dog. I know it's a fools journey. Nothing like living on the edge. Ha! Ha!" The exclamation points were added to show she still maintained a sense of humor.

She took the elevator down to the main floor. Thankfully the descending conveyance did not stop to let other passengers enter the elfin sized compartment. Those moments sure were awkward. Elevators were on the list of confined spaces permitting a maximum of one occupant at a time. Most people choose to ignore the recommendations.

Last week an uncomfortable situation arose when Karen and Kenzington, a young couple sweet as goats milk, were, when the elevator lurched to a halt and the door opened, revealed to be clutching one another in a rather erotic embrace and kissing through their face masks.

Idiots, kissing in a public place was a social faux pax, face mask or no face mask, and if they were caught on flash cam, well, the consequences could be consequential. Dr. Jane was even more uncomfortable when the two of them smiled, the corners of their eyes crinkling above the line of their masks, and boarded the lift. 

But that was then, and this is now and for the first time in how many days she walked through the revolving doors out onto the semi-bustling street. She stood there, rolled herself a cigarette, slipped down her mask, inhaled city air that seemed fresher than it had in ages, and began to walk.

Traffic was light, stores were shuttered, some boarded. A bus went by, mostly empty. Unconsciously and without provocation she spat on the sidewalk. The expectorate landed where she was about to place her food so she stepped over the spittle and unceremoniously strolled on. 

Three blocks down George the 'Sausage Guy' had a still booming business. Overhead was low and he was raking in the cash. Okay, booming may not be the right choice of word but he was doing alright compared to most. Competition in the form of sit in restaurants never really returned after the lockdown let up. A lot of eateries closed for good and many of those that did open never regained their clientele.

"Dr. Jane, how are ya kiddo? Haven't seen ya in a few weeks. Laying low like most of us? No bout a doubt it, times have changed. Glad to see you wearing a mask, sort a. Not like half these bozos. I got one custom. Look, see, there's a picture of a tiny guy eating a huge sausage." He points to his mask. "Get it?"

She didn't get it. Whatever. "I am well George. Hanging in there as best I can. I have to admit, some days are more difficult than others. I originally wanted to purchase a simple hot dog but have reconsidered my desires and I now crave a Sausage Extreme with all the fixings."

"Good choice Dr. Jane. Comin' right up. Say, haven't seen your geographically challenged boyfriend for over a month. 'Dats not like him. He come down with the Covid?"

Jane paused before answering. She flicked the butt. Watched it sail out into non-existent traffic. It landed on the road and smoldered a moment before the glow fizzled. "He is out of town. He left unexpectedly. I'm not exactly sure where he went. Actually, I have no idea where he went and I have not heard from him. Gomez went with him, I am sure."

"Those two are as inseparable as mustard and ketchup. Get it? Hey, you want kraut on the sausage?"

"Of course. George, tell me something. Have you ever traveled?"

Meanwhile, in another part of the city a highly leveraged chain of hot dog stands was about to go under.

George, the one man Pop stand, was soon to loose a lot of competition. It was another knife wound into the heart of the ailing economy. Shortly thereafter a bank would default and set off a chain of events unparalleled in human history.