Minimal World
"That'll be $7.98," the woman, her gray hair peeking from under the bandana around her large, angular face, said as she bagged the watermelon and handed it to Luciana.
"I'll pay with my phone," Luciana replied.
The woman nodded, gesturing to the payment terminal on the counter. Luciana tapped her phone against it, and the transaction went through seamlessly.
"Thanks," Luciana said, taking the bag of fruit. "Have a great day."
"You too, honey," the woman called after her. As Luciana turned away, she gave her a once-over, it wasn't the first time she had seen her.
As Luciana walked out of the small market, she felt the heat of the sun beating down on her. It was a scorching summer day in Wisconsin, and the first thing Luciana did upon arriving home was to place the bag containing the watermelon on the table. The wicker tablecloth absorbed the impact of the heavy watermelon as Luciana sat down on the wooden piano bench and began to play. The fabric of her white dress with blue floral print rested on the walnut stool, doing little to alleviate the heat.
As the notes flowed, the painting displayed on the kitchen table was the sole listener, and Luciana its sole observer. Entitled "Minimal World," it depicted a greatly simplified landscape with clean lines and soft colors, featuring simple geometric shapes and ample negative space. The idea was to convey the beauty and serenity of a world reduced to its essentials. Not much is really needed to find happiness.
Luciana contemplated her thoughts to the rhythm of the melody. Her paintings, once ignored by the general public, were now appreciated by a large majority, allowing her to make a living from her art and exhibit it in galleries, museums, and even in official or private advertising campaigns. Did she really deserve this? Her art was minimalist and simple but encompassed a great sense of love for the world and society, infused with what she considered to be positive and important messages that invited reflection.
Still, for a long time, no one had paid attention to them, perhaps for some reason. She wondered if her success was fair. While many other artists, probably much more skilled than her, were living on the streets begging or creating very accurate portraits of the obliging people who stopped in front of them in the subway. Most people didn't have the time or inclination to truly appreciate the work of these artists. They hurried past, fixated on their own lives, rarely sparing a glance at the the artists that worked tirelessly, hoping that someone would acknowledge their talent and offer support.
Luciana's fingers glided effortlessly across the piano keys, and the music filled the room. The minimalistic painting seemed to absorb the melody, as if it were part of the artwork itself. Outside, the sun continued to beat down, just as Luciana beat the piano keys.
While Luciana played the piano in her sunlit living room, the library behind her suddenly opened without her even turning around. Her expression remained impassive and pensive. A blinding light, unlike anything compared to the sunlight filling the room, emanated from the space between the two now-separated bookshelves, and a six-meter-tall being entered the room, crouching to fit. "There's the watermelon, take it before it spoils in this heat," Luciana said dispassionately.
The otherworldly being floated towards the table, picking up the watermelon that seemed like a grape in its enormous hand, and checked its freshness by bringing it close to its wide mouth, which served as a nose and eyes—a sort of universal analyzer. "It's fresh," the being said. Luciana’s artistic career depended on that fruit, and no, she wasn't drawing watermelons.
Luciana stopped playing, having fulfilled her purpose: to summon the being, whose names were not spoken but played as melodies. They had taught her the melody during their first encounter.
"Yes, it's from the usual store, they have the freshest watermelons, just the kind you like," Luciana said, her eyes still fixed on her painting. "The fresher they are, the more citrulline," the being said, attempting a smile, which for its species meant opening its mouth to the sides—a somewhat intimidating appearance that Luciana had learned to ignore.
"Is something wrong?" the being asked, noticing her distraction. "It's just that, I don't know, do I really deserve this fame? I mean before meeting you, before meeting your race, no one noticed my paintings," she admitted. "Of course you do, that's why we fixed that little problem. Your paintings deserve admiration, they just needed the push that we give them. By the way, have you painted any new ones? So I can add the final touch?" the being said. "That final touch, it's like you hypnotize people..." Luciana hesitated. "Well, we just make them notice what they should notice, how amazing your creations are, that's all. And in exchange, we only ask for you to provide us with watermelons. I thought you were okay with it."
"I understand that Earth was your creation, just another ship of yours, and you signed an agreement with the Space Federation to give it up for experimental purposes, giving rise to the human race. That same agreement prevents you from intervening directly and disrupting the natural flow of our society or forcing anyone, which is why you chose this small action. And the fact that I’m the chosen one because, well, you didn't say it like that, but basically because I'm weak, a nobody. And I had a frustrated dream that made me easy to manipulate. Besides, who would believe me if I told them? An artist who imagines things wouldn't be anything strange. But couldn't you really get citrulline from somewhere else?" Luciana said, starting to sweat from the very act of speaking.
"It would be difficult to obtain watermelons in any other way. If we contacted someone with access to a watermelon field, it would be too obvious, and we don't want to cause any shortages or draw attention to ourselves—we don't want to be investigated. Besides, watermelons have the highest citrulline content on Earth. Citrulline is our source of energy, a powerful vasodilator necessary to make our machinery work, which essentially functions like your human body. That's where you came from, after all. Our reserves are running low, and our source was Earth until we signed the agreement. Of course, when we signed it, we didn't expect to encounter supply problems, but it's too late to go back now," the being said, and Luciana couldn't see any expression on his face, although the tone of its voice conveyed a deep sense of sadness.
The being approached her and placed its enormous, two-fingered hand on her shoulder. "The fact that you're concerned shows the goodness of your soul, and that's enough to deserve your paintings being appreciated. So don't worry about it, we're not harming anyone. You're a successful painter who purchases watermelons, and we get to keep our ship running. It's a win-win situation." The being's reassuring words and gentle touch brought some comfort to Luciana, but a lingering doubt remained in the back of her mind. Was this really a fair arrangement, or was she being taken advantage of in exchange for a taste of success?
The being disappeared the way he came, and this time Luciana didn't bother to bid farewell. Instead, without even checking that the library had closed properly, she headed to the bathroom. She thought that a refreshing shower might help clear not only her body but also her mind.
Luciana checked her mobile phone and saw a message from Matthew, her boyfriend. The last message they had exchanged was a sketch that Luciana had sent him for his opinion, and he now replied that it was impressive and that she should continue with the painting. In Luciana's eyes, that sketch was terrible. She thought to herself, "Not you too!" This was all she needed to decide to end the pact she had with the aliens.
She quickly sat down at the piano, playing the melody to summon the being, but no one appeared. Perhaps it hadn't yet returned to the ship. Unable to wait any longer, Luciana focused on the library, noticing that it wasn't sealed shut as she usually made sure to do after the visits. She pushed forcefully to open it, revealing a blinding light in the shape of a tunnel. She followed it, reaching a door, and on the other side, she could see what looked like spaceship pilot controls. She also heard voices, which scared her, so she hid in the doorway. Luciana saw another being similar to the one she had always dealt with enter from one side and hand a polka-dot backpack to another being. "Seriously? Another watermelon?" the other being said as they threw the backpack down a tunnel labeled "Waste for Shredding."
Brother Sister, Brother, BrotherSister
Note: I tried Horror exactly once as a long-form story and it ended up better matching an Urban Fantasy or Paranormal.
**************************
The first night, no matter how dangerous, how bullheaded, and unbelievably insensitive to Donna's constant badgering or the motherly hysterics from Mom, Cole had visited Josh's little grave when his sister had first been lost.
Following a long, long, loooong coming "first date," with who had seemed a sweet, somewhat dweeb of a Tony McGuire fanboy.
There was a sleet of harsh rain at two eighteen in the morning, battering the cemetery. Completely stealing away his voice having barely opened his lips.
After all, shadows among the stones, or peeling up and down from the green bed of grass and jauntily blossoming sprouts from fresh mounds could very well be ghosts. And the very moon in the sky full and lustrous, was really a metallic drone watching and recording.
"I'm telling you little brother there's something out there. I knew that upswing of reported crop circles had been important. It's such a cliche but its completely possible they either don't care or don't think its important. For goodness sake if they've committed the perfect kidnapping not to mention figured intergalactic space travel what do they care about what us bugs think are patterns," he ranted and raved. Sounding crazy as always, in just the way that drove Donna insane. In just the way that swept him up and could sweep him away from his thoughts.
Of the too small, too beautiful gravestone. But Josh deserved nothing less, had been so, so much, and died much too young one summer's afternoon on a camping trip upstate with his scout troop.
Dad had spitefully sued the neglectful teens on duty and in fact the entire chapter to the ground.
"Dad wants to kill Zack," Cole informed to the silent marble. Not much of a marvel, hardly worth the waver. Despite knowing the poor, sweet guy was the last person to have been guilty. "No really, not just the usual, though that was funny to watch," and a genuine if not brittle smile came to him at the thought.
Then again, there'd been some tempers flown at Donna too, she hadn't told anyone they'd transitioned to dating.
"Let me tell you about what I found out, see there's this Occult website that sells really well and their products actually look homemade. Each one has its own flare," he continued on, smile hitched on his face, gleaming oddly in the scant light, "I-- I bought this salt, see we'd have maybe gone demon hunting around the woods and other such places dotted around, it's supposed to protect against demons and evil spirits."
Cole emptied the hemp bag in a negligible circle, careful with each palmful, that about half still turned to paste in the storm.
Saying a prayer, about twenty or so minutes later, Cole said his goodbyes and biked against the wet pavement, slippery and squeaking, fighting the tires and shocks of his once shiny new mint bicycle.
Able to creep back into the yard through the purposefully unlocked lawn gate sopping wet and stripping down to his boxers disposing of the offending clothes in an empty basin meant to be filled with a sizeable plant. Alarm set for a couple hours so he could take up collecting and piling the clothes into a couple hours with the dryer.
Well, that night turned to two then three and four, for five weeks without exception. He began to resemble a skin walker himself off his conspiracy boards, constantly grimy, stinking of wet soil, so, so grimy, itching everywhere scraping his nails across flesh to rash-worthy red.
Cole had been forced to admit, exclusively to himself that when the sound of the pipes dripping just underneath the wall, was his own heart, somehow outside his chest someone somehow dead. That something, some unholy thing wanted to devour him that he may have been losing his mind just a little.
He had admitted to a lesser crime, he admitted to meandering //inside// the house at odd hours unable to rest, so his parents permitted he skipped school.
And selfish as it was, Cole couldn't help but boast that included an exam in the dreaded literature class.
It took something of a terrible person, that once his head did hit a pillow, Cole slept without complaint. Without nightmares and without question. Of whether Donna would live or die. When. Or if she was found.
And in fact they did find her.
A very nice homeless man called the police and with the proper tests done did in fact ascertain there'd been no foolishness.
And the momentary flash, red and made of primal, inherited vitriol abated.
The good man had done a very good thing.
A very, very good thing.
"Hi! My name's Donna! I'm four years old! I don't, I don't know my full address yet," she said, hand distorting her words.
"Oh!" she shot out, pointing to Mom, "that's my Mom, her see and Dad too."
She giggled at her shaved head, squealed in naive curious fear of the bandage at her head.
Making her whole family flinched in how closely she fingered a blatant hole that had caved her head. Slick and sticky with blood, too much blood and fluid.
Somehow Cole still slept through the nights.
Some nights he did sleep through the way Donna wandered around the hall where the bedrooms are, eyes wide and in some way glazed. Somehow dusted with a silver there hadn't been before.
Other nights he heard her, humming an absent, toneless song in an airy fairy-like voice. Fitting for her delicate, ethereal young age.
In all seriousness, Donna had never been so, so... dim yet curious.
Her little red black button up easter dress always came back as clean as she had left in it.
However the doctors had said to expect it.
Even if it did prickle uncomfortably at Cole.
The little parts of Donna that came out wrong from that place she had been in.
But four year old Donna had cried when fed celery and broccoli at that age. Which had allowed him to be the good one for once.
And now she balked at the concept of meat and the dead animal.
Mom and Dad, the doctors, heads lowered in such pity concede all the manner of gruesome things she could have encountered.
Once the concept had finally sunk in, that like some fairytale her brother had grown big without her, she clung to his every word and asked a myriad of questions.
An otherwise perfect impression.
If it weren't for the unnatural misted shine of her green eyes and the sheer oddity of her childish smile.
Cole tossed and turned at night. The word skating across his brain.
Skin walkers. Dead. Changing faces, skin dirty becomes clean. Crops. No hair, no prints. No struggle at all.
FAKE.
Donna, was a fake.
His breath had just about turned to ice when the door knob turned.
Creak
Creak
Creak
Eyes bored down his nape.
Cole reluctantly sucked in a breath past the sudden marble in his throat.
"Are you awake?" she asked shyly, maybe wringing her hands.
"I had a nightmare, I was scared."
Cole kept his silence.
"Can I sleep with you?"
//I'll keep the nightmares away!//
Cole had once declared that, announcing an impromptu sleepover as the neglected older children with that pink ham named Josh around.
The thing that looked like his sister crawled into the covers.
Settling in contentedly next to him lying close enough that her nose touched his back.
"Are you okay? You're tense, really, real tense."
The Gift
Note: I mostly write, or hope to write, sci-fi or plain-old humour. However, as a challenge, I wrote a fantasy flash-fiction based on an image prompt. I hope this fits in with the brief of this challenge!
---
The tribe would never be the same again.
Kagura fell back from the crowd that watched Lephiane emerge from the top of the mountain. The strange plume that billowed from the sack behind her had stunned her. Not long ago, the two witch sisters had had one of their arguments when Lephiane was venturing across the Barren Rift.
“Lephy, please don’t go!”, she had pleaded.
“Sister, you know we are the chosen ones of the tribe”, Lephiane had argued, “We must venture for the tribe’s survival. They say the land of the Infinite People has a magical gift that has helped them survive for eons and eons.”
“But … but we have everything we need, don’t we? What’s more, we can now conjure up new things for the tribe. Things they never knew existed!”
“Be that as it may, it doesn’t change the fact that we are all dying. Fast!”
“I am working on it …”, Kagura had been hurt.
Lephiane had then held her sister close and comforted her.
“I know. I know. You are smart, brave and skillful. I am sure you will soon be able to save the tribe from extinction; one way or another. But my destiny lies in seeking wonders that exist across the lands, the waters and the mountains.”
“When will you leave?”
Lephiane had smiled as she wiped Kagura’s tears with her sash. “At the first sign of dew tomorrow. You can send me away with your new creation that always brings us home.”
“The Pathfinder!”, Kagura had exclaimed.
Now, as she watched Lephiane making her way back slowly, she was filled with dread about the new dangers that would follow. What if the Infinite People were not friendly and the tribe faced an onslaught like the last time when the long night had come? Hadn’t they been happy for so many ages just being black or white?
The land was white and people were black. It worked very well. The Radiant One in the sky never burned them with her wrath. They saw her walking by, watching over them serenely, where the lands, the waters and the mountains met the sky. There were no shadows to scare the little ones. There were no harsh bright surprises either.
The soft cushions that covered most of the sky were white too. Occasionally they cried along with the tribe. Often when someone went back to The Invisible One. The lament lasted weeks sometimes. They just buried themselves deeper until the crying stopped. It also gave them a chance, in a way, to get closer to those who were gone.
Lephiane was clearly visible now. Kagura retreated a step as if not wanting to meet her sister, not wanting to accept that she was back – and what gift she bore this time. She was happy with the way things were. Simple is always better. Two is better than many.
“I love this black and white world of ours!”, she almost said aloud.
The rising plume of smoke was growing in size and Kagura’s heartbeat sped up. What was about the smoke that she could not fathom? It was neither black nor white. She had never seen that shade before. She wondered if her sister had turned evil from a sorcerer’s spell. She began chanting her secret hymn to face the imminent danger.
All around her, the tribe watched Lephiane. Each of her sisters stood motionless, like they always did to receive travellers. It was a show of strength. No weapons, no spells. Just silence and a resolve to stand their ground. Then, it happened.
A faint restlessness rippled through the watching sisters. A step here, a twitch there. Soon, they were all retreating, slowly but surely. This had never happened before, thought Kagura. Lephiane was already bringing fear with her. The tribe that had lived without distress, doubt or phobia of any kind were moved. She prepared for the inevitable and made her decision.
---
“Kagura! Kagura! My dear sister!”, Lephiane broke into a run and then stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong, sis? Why is everyone retreating?”
“It’s the … the smoke!”, stammered Kagura.
“Oh this? No, don’t be afraid, dear sisters”, assured Lephiane, “This gift will free us from eternal perish. It will provide us with the magical powers to live forever!”
“How?”, demanded Kagura, “All we have ever got from these gifts is destruction and pain.”
“I will teach you how to use it! I have met wizards all over the land of the Infinite People. I know why they are called the Infinite People!”
Kagura frowned but did not retreat any further. Lephiane was now within a few hands from her. Kagura mustered up her courage and met her sister. As they held hands, as she felt her sister’s fingers curl around her palm, Kagura felt something she hadn’t ever before. It was as if she was slowly thawing.
“What’s happening to me, Lephy?”, she asked.
“This is the gift I bring”, smiled Lephiane, “We will never pass away cold and frozen.
We can survive the long white days and nights. The Infinite People keep this gift everywhere. Their homes, pathways, mountains. They even carry it with them over water. Their nights are not black anymore. They can keep away all creatures with this gift. That is how they have survived for many many eons.”
“How does the gift help them do that?”, demanded Kagura, not convinced.
“It keeps them less frozen, or warm, as they say. They offered it to me when receiving me. A warm welcome, they exclaimed. I was as fearful as I sense you are now, sister. Then, I began enjoying the fruits of this gifts, and there are countless! Do you know that we can keep this gift going forever? You can share it and it grows. Oh Kagura! We can finally see in the black nights. We can drive all the demons away that frighten the little ones of the tribe!”
“Does this … this gift have a name?”
“Fire!”, said Lephiane and Kagura knew:
The tribe would never be the same again.
Black And White
Cade let his arm fall slack, almost dropping the extra six inches of steel that extended forth from his loosening grip. He holstered the gun and surveyed the carnage before him. The church was riddled with corpses and viscera. He couldn’t help but wonder if God himself would be satisfied with this bloodshed, or if he would demand yet more.
He cast a glance to the altar and saw the monster himself, terror filling his tear-filled eyes, clutching the podium like his God would strike down this invader and save him from his fate. Just like he had saved the rest? Cade stepped slowly between the pews and down towards the twisted creature that was clad in black and white and covered in sin. He reached for the rope at his belt, and the creature snarled and whimpered before launching itself at him in a fearful frenzy.
Cade stepped aside and it fell to the floor behind him. He began tying the rope around his arms and legs. “You have soiled this holy house of Go…!” it screamed as Cade forced the rope around the creature’s neck and pulled it tight, cutting off any other worthless words from spilling from its maw. He leaned down and spoke into its ear with chilling calm.
“God ain’t here, Padre. You and I both know that. Don’t we?” he said in the low gravelly voice of someone who had found no reason to speak in some time, as he began dragging the monster towards the open doors of the ruined church and into the streets.
The people of the town who had refused to raise arms against him gathered around. Cade felt the evil in himself rising, as if called to waking by his actions. He thought about the things this creature had done to good people in the name of it’s unholy God. He thought about the sight of his wife and son’s charred cadavers and felt a tear stream down his face, though his face remained implacable. He wanted to enact horrible deeds against this killer, but that would do nothing but drag his soul into perdition right alongside it.
The people watched as the demon in their midst was dragged by a rope to the hanging tree in the center of town. A place where they had watched so many a man and woman “sent to God”. Cade inspected the faces of these people around him, and he saw fury in their eyes. Whether it was for him or his prey, he didn’t know.
Cade dropped the rope and allowed the demon in disguise to writhe along the ground as he stepped up to the tree and looked out once again at the faces of those complicit in the death of the only light in his world.
“If you’re wantin’ some last words to your flock Padre, best get to speakin’.” he said.
The preacher only managed a choked gurgle as he tried to claw at the section of rope wrapped firmly around his throat.
Cade nodded. “Par for the course, I suppose.” he said.
“Means about as much as the rest of the bile you spew.” he muttered to himself before stepping over to grab the end of the rope and slinging it over a thick bough of the tree and hoisting with every bit of strength he had left.
He heard no screams of shock from the crowd around him. Nobody tried to stop him or save the preacher. They all just watched the so-called man of God, as his face turned blue, and his tongue became swollen within his throat. They listened to the gurgles and the silent pleas in his bulging eyes, to them and his God.
Cade didn’t know if they had seen the truth in their sinful ways or if they simply didn’t find the strength necessary to stop him. He felt his muscles strain and his own strength waver as he continued to hoist the preacher, holding on until he felt the last of the life within the evil bastard disappear.
Finally, he felt the rope go taut and still. He released the weight all at once and turned around to see the lifeless corpse of the preacher, just as ugly on the outside now, as he had always been within.
Cade, without looking away, undid his holster from his belt and allowed the gun to fall to the ground before turning away without a word, and disappearing into the desert beyond.
Reclaiming Me
I don't write fiction. Life too thick to break out from. Made up characters flat compared to those who have punched me in the gut in life. Punched so hard, so deep it knocked the creative wind out of me. So I can only spew, vent, rage. I hate this version of me.
There was another once. Joyful, loving. In love with you actually. Expansive, generous, giving. All for you. I loved even me then.
I know I say you took that soul away but is it true? Was it me instead of you?
Was it me instead of you who had the capacity to profoundly adore beauty, suck the spirit out of pleasure, enjoy just breathing? Was it me who gave you to power to deflate, ravage, slaughter my soul? If so, I renege on our broken contract of forever and ever; and now vow to try to reclaim the I who is me without you.
I'll admit I don't recall the melody but I still have the words always swirling never stopping in my head. Perhaps if I listen to the earth, the beat of my still thumping heart, the never disappointing spring, I can twist my words to a different tune and regain myself in the process. Perhaps if I just chose to realign my focus I can reclaim me.
Ruminations upon approaching my 100th birthday – while still able to scooch, sidle, shimmy, snuggle, squat..
January thirteenth deux thousand and fifty nine only x squared number months away. Courtesy of global warming the howl of old man winter long fostered, linkedin, relegated... to the meteorological dustbin of Earth's history. This indignity to enraged Gaia. Subsequently she gingerly foisted upon bipedal critters blistering, scorching, withering,... temperatures. Hellacious for any fool who dared to amble, ferry, scuttle..., across the crusty burnt offering mantle of said oblate spheroid basically, essentially and literally liquidated the once diverse four seasons into one hot long summer. Despite dire doomsday prognostications countless elapsed generations blithely ignored stepped up iterations Mother Earth could go kaput fell on deaf ears. Analogous to the boy who cried wolf, the honest to dog diehard devil in the details got nay sayed, poo pooed, trumpeted, et cetera as “FAKE” news. Undisputable, undeniable, uncontestable, irrefutable... scientific data blithely skirted courtesy pant tum mime ming politicians. Hardcore scientific data claimed as ploy to distort, hoodwink, muckrake as odious Republican party. Though no conspiracy theory, this realization undermined quality of all life and stultifiedall creatures great and small each compromised delicate thread, viz seriously threatened uber World Wide Web. Human civilization namely soaring disenfranchised bajillion populations contributing most spike, asper hungry mouths to feed plan net absolute zero elimination of fossil fuels materialized beyond the "talking heads" stage. Serious irreparable environmental degradation diversity regarding species diversification took Kamikaze nosedive , whereby bipedal hominids, i.e. specifically Homo sapiens to whit made final endrun touchdown. Only a few toke ken flora and fauna endowed with privilege from said self anointed, elected, and jackknifed biosphere. Total mortal kombat desecration long since declared upon all other creatures large and small lame odds against most formidable fee fie foe fum I smell blood of Everyman. The ability for scientists of all stars and stripes definitely greater than fifty plus perfected the ways and means to synthesize, albeit do it yourself cloning kits recreating with minimal mutations impossible mission to distinguish once upon a time authentic animals (particularly humans), and plants versus mutation free replicas version xyz. Each man, woman, and child inherently capable, feasible, permissible to forage, (or forge) any extinct life form after genetically modified bot size organisms became chromosomally integrated. Yea quite a hullabaloo scores of decades back. These vehement uproars (protesting outright novel manipulation - leftist kindled jibber jabber walking iconoclasts) by good n plenti madding crowd sourced with austere outlook nonestablishmentarian. Popular protests against agribusinesses (amateur blind faith knowledge) frequently led to misguided disastrous results. I refer, while simultaneously taking deep inhalation of homemade reefer to age of discovery and exploration. Now nonpareil sophistication generically trademarked, mere pennies on the dollar prevailed for mom and pop boutiques "cell bait shops," more so for exotic breeders to catercorner a niche market heartily throve. Interestingly enough, more conservative advocates (initially no surprise liberal revolutionary types) pressed government(s) to assert regulation. Unlikely severe checks and balances could be implemented at this foregone stage, cuz plethora of custom designed ecologies promulgated, kindled, inculcated, et cetera at initial terrestrial hermetically sealed tougher genetic ware of select fertilization. Such accustomed, embedded, gerrymandered, et cetera paradigm part and parcel of humanity analogous to the aromatic, organic, and universalistic controlled environmentally fractionally formulated, distilled, brewed... air supply people breathe. Software applications readily proliferate, though most of us quite able minded to code for prospective fathers, mothers, or avowed single parent available to tinker, fiddle and finely tune an offspring. The latest purported technological advancement blends computer fostered instituted quasi android with deoxyribonucleic acid these latter twenty first century primates culled, but basic understanding of biochemistry allows, enables, and provides cutting edge fantastic glowing harvested innovations, where fertile imagination stretched to outer limit of twilight zone meant outer reaches of cosmos the limit.
Similar to any exploratory craft fabricating, honing, and interweaving the blend of microelectronics insync with carbon life forms takes artificial intelligence into the sketchy realm of science fiction supreme sensate beings. Thus, the prolongation of telomeres lifespan, a quandary gaining significant realization since prelapsarian times, harkening back when my bubba's zayda to the power of Google) increased longevity of the average human. Actually, even pets and/or other domesticated creature included within sweep of keeping a check on aging cells, perhaps helps to explain the title of this vignette. Naturally, mine bicentennial circuit denoting seventy thousand days warrants accommodation of loved ones. This thrifty Pennywise papa of E_ L_ and S_ A_ tried level best to guide his two lovely daughters toward enlightenment.
Deep purple outcast Earthling...
Finds living social brutal, an impossible mission among an alien nation of nasty trumpeting sore losers, who don their heads periwigged with orange coiffure emulating, looking, and ululating trolls bemoaning the existence of hashtagged second class citizens such as yours truly, a genetic anomaly whose misconstrued physique (mine), an innocent married sexagenarian, whose predilection towards stranger things (that go bump in the night) experienced being character assassinated, electronically besmirched, and forever crucified for claiming to be divine creator reincarnate attested by scars evincing severe puncture wounds (courtesy sharp stake) to palms of each hand, where river of blood coagulated upon emaciated body electric, yet never totally extinguishing unbridled spirit.
Abandonment at birth courtesy young unwed mother of mine found her set beet red, gangly and scraggly newborn within basket - case there might happen by the boulevard of broken dreams, an altruistic, deterministic, humanistic, maternalistic, spiritualistic, and zootheistic good samaritan (and a nice Jewish man to boot - ha), which wayfaring stranger from a stranger land or maybe even an extraterrestrial channeler from amidst dark shadows hoovering within outer limits of the twilight zone, whereby said nebulous Gaia the Greek goddess of Earth, mother of all life, similar to the Roman Terra Mater (mother Earth) reclining with a cornucopia, or the Andean Pachamama, the Hindu, Prithvi, “the Vast One,” or the Hopi Kokyangwuti, Spider Grandmother, who with Sun god Tawa created Earth and its creatures.
Fast forward sixty five years to the present where wedded bliss eludes a wordsmith envisioning being whisked away (with a half sashay, and a do-si-do) at light speed to accompany other worldly species as interstellar travel fine companion to hopskotch across the universe despite obvious and immediate language barrier, and essential species difference gnome matter said cosmic dust rendered myself and other entity divergent organisms prone to eye each other with at least one characteristic aberration, barbarization, elucidation, fascination, intercommunication, jubilation, melodramatization, nonconfrontation, et cetera.
Upon surrendering this self hypnotized faux yes ("FAKE") Earthing, I noticed nothing amiss (which temporary state of transcendent bliss twice daily meditation strives to attain), ah...before you dismiss a non "FAKE" claim lemme juiced apprise ye with a very brief hiss tour re:, how this generally outlandish (long gush fellow) doth wanna kiss hippy, cheeky and buddy UFO's (with chess a bot of errant knightly - je ne sais quois finesse, Oh Henri Matisse - yea artfully add a touch of Swiss obviously predominantly French laced politesse), though up pawn occasion this lousy manque nonrook key mutant doth miss long disused subtle social cues, cuz I still feel asper (in) a human aberration always felt like an outcast in an alien nation even though born on Mars, (a distinct honorable station), yet resided on third rock from the sun what seems like forever damnation yours truly experienced abolition against supposed invaders from outer space, and essentially targeted, kindled, and bullied on par like an abomination, no surprise while attempting to escape being walled din, and trumped "illegal" accusation crackled, snapped, and popped with abjection, your honor (forgot to mention earlier got picked up mistaken as invitation from outer space by a kid prized as some sophisticated surveillance drone), within a sketchy section of town, and must avoid acquisition by mad scientists (employed by NASA), who will undoubtedly take immediate action and disassemble me (carefully as if dismantling Bono fide atomic bomb), hence activation must be established pronto against administration, sans powerful GMO firearm, emitting disinformation (mine defense of last resort) will definitely signal to nemesis furthering my aggravation, and Putin this webbed, whirled, and wired woebegone wysiwyg at risk.
I ably, eagerly, readily, and willingly roll out the Scottish Tartan mat in an honest to dog effort to be removed (ofttimes experiencing chilblains as persona non grata) as soon as possible off a planet chock a block teeming with billions of anglocentric, eccentric, egocentric, humancentric, phallogocentric, et cetera bumping uglies during three hundred and sixty five days (one additional twenty four hour period occurring every leap year), self absorbed in satisfying basic instinct to procreate despite overpopulation imposing immense stress upon oblate spheroid analogous to spinning wheel (threading thru Milky Way galaxy) across variable cosmic tapestry in the sky that keeps on turnin.'
How curious to embark on long day's journey into night where experiencing inescapable gentle tug of black hole's gravitational pull extends indefinitely, but its strength diminishes with distance subsequently the gravitational force from a black hole can be felt from any distance, but it becomes weaker the farther you are from the black hole, therefore no specific "cut-off" distance for its gravitational influence, but it becomes negligible at large distances, just like any other massive object in space.
Beginner's luck found yours truly (me) honored and privileged to become linkedin with space travel endeavor, which global enterprise incorporated representative ace cadets inured to the rigorous regimen of zero gravity.
An exceptional solo flight to Mars on a lark, (a summer vacation experienced many years before as an audacious, capricious, and precocious adolescent and native Martian to boot), who stealthily boarded the sleek and sophisticated state of the art missile, (which stood ready to be launched at a moment's notice) did notch prospects and counted as figurative feather in my cap considerably increasing prospect to voyage into the realm when the space/time continuum burst with a big chitty chitty bang bang, when entering the spatial sweepstakes for a one way ticket to witness the beginning formation of galaxies.
Even though an aerospace engineer with an assignment in top secret government project to sendd an unmanned rocket to the red planet, (the intention to scramble aboard the massive satellite required careful planning over the course of many months), I lacked particular knowledge about entering hatchways, which would allow, enable, and provide easy access to enter the control center.
Company policy frowns on interaction between one department and another issued special badges (even with the most restrictive clearance) to minimize espionage and sabotage, and/or the selling of vital information to a competitor particularly Russia, many other countries that comprise the Soviet Bloc, and even China.
In an effort to obtain vital information for redacted reports mentioning (or even alluding) to general data points about said undertaking, I won over any skepticism on behalf of chief executive officers (and their ilk) with a sincere concern the normal wear and tear of the components at structural junctures subject to excessive metal fatigue.
With the aid of latest computer hardware and software, the graphical user images on the screen showed every square inch of each module, which electronic schematics could be rotated three hundred and sixty degrees in at least (but not limited to) three dimensional arrangement.
Upon request, a permit became available for me to scrutinize the actual entire multistage proud product at various stages of completion utilizing digital camera, hand held tablet, and latest implements of the trade notating courtesy diagram and description any questionable site that cast a dark shadow of doubt for a successful thrust of mother ship into deep space nine.
Lest any tell tale signs signs of an independent research enterprise betrayed my true where-abouts and/or ulterior motives, an undisclosed pricey retreat someplace in the tropics constituted the solee extent for my explanation at a long term leave of absence, which got corroborated courtesy revamped computer program responsible for monitoring surveillance in the far fetched event some intelligent living social alien life source ransacked premises.
As the day of lift off approached, an stepped up increase in preparations for my lengthy surreptitious stay in space took place. Tucked away in frequently overlooked nooks and crannies behind innocuous panels stood cannistors of food, me books and telecommunications devices, aa high powered microscope and writing material as back up medium.
All those months blankly staring at least one, (but ofttimes many more) monitor screens, thumbing thru technical reports, and quite a few unobserved practice dry runs (to familiarize and adequately prepare me with the real test) witnessed perfect blast off without a hitch into the infinite azure sky, more so the color of an inky abyss as millions of miles jettisoned yours truly permanently away from nearly totally traumatized Earth.
Even with the aid of a seatbelt and shoulder strap, the powerful shocked thrust from the forced propulsion heavily bore down against my forehead and created the sensation of being flattened by a steamroller, but once outside the powerful force of the planetary pull, I experienced a lightness of being. Arms and legs floated up as if I owned no control (to major Tom) over them.
From recent maneuvers in a simulated environment of weightlessness at the Astronaut Training Center (ATC for short), a place about halfway to the moon available to all employees who thought to relocate to of of a dirty dozen deeded deployment destinations strategically strewn across a trafficked trajectory.
Although usually considered unwise to bounce around in a free form fashion within a traditional sized room without a strong rope tied around the waist and affixed to a secure anchoring post, or donning suction shoes, the cubicle housing makeshift main headquarters the exception to aforementioned rule, which cramped area not specifically designed to carry a passenger (unless excursionist qualified as an authentic midget) offered slight breathing space to average sized person excellent at being a contortionist.
Anything I wanted could be obtained within arms length. Most of the intervening hours whiled away found yours truly (me) adopting meditative pose, whereby a certain serenity pervaded throughout my entire trek into the outer limits of the twilight zone lulled into mental, physical, and spiritual quiescence courtesy absolute zero sound, nary a whine of engine disrupted hypnotic trancelike state.
Within the immediate moments after blastoff, the third rock from the sun (home to multitudinous species of life that proliferated despite impact of Homo sapiens upon all animals and plants exhibiting wanton exploitation of fauna and flora to buzzfeed the capital one promulgation of industrialization) instantaneously receded into a pinprick of light before blinking out altogether, which inky blackness suddenly pronounced, accentuated, underlining austere beauty of the cosmos.
My quasi/pseudo fiction titled balms away
originally written June 10th, 2018
Never could this prattling dada adjust to “empty nest” syndrome (he considered a bord den), despite natural declaration of independence, either of two beloved daughters took, who trod divergent paths (measure for) measure with much ado about nothing to attain singular autonomy.
Language usage the perfect analogous engine and tonic re: incorporating universalistic, therapeutic, opportunistic, holistic, and cathartic personal choice modus operandi vis a vis coping method to allow, enable, and provide adjustment since (the smallest possible) even number of offspring figuratively flew (without being chicken) the coop.
Thus, thy near limitless imagination took refuge in conjuring means to harness this then melancholic feeling.
Sadness ofttimes (more so in mine recent writing past, which coincided with trials and tribulations of assessing completed fatherhood) helped expunge, shoe away, and soften hard heart hardening like leaden albatross that weighed upon psyche.
An aha moment arose soothing this inconsolable ache, especially to bear witness, when thee youngest poised to graduate from Redmond Proficiency Academy sans the evening of Friday May 26th, 2017.
Courtesy of an overactive imagination, this dada could practically will himself to be (and or course not to be living in a Shakespearean hamlet, per chance shaped like a Globe bull omelet, where measure for measure all's well that ends well as you like it) in the presence of those whose absence affects me the most.
Aside from the mental equivalent of a clowning magician possessing wizardry zeal, a secret channel existed for me to experiment as a “guinea pig” to bring wishful thoughts into fruition.
So without further delay (explaining general information about this prosaically protective proud papa), I cut to the virtual paper chase and apply the remaining words to self-taught exploit to travel at the speed of greased lightning.
Whether the weather perfect or inclement, this middle-aged father follows strict safety guidelines.
Additionally, true to the postal employee motto, (which maxim faithfully, dutifully, and benevolently taken to heart whenever I did dull liver mail, a job that comprised my working career since age eighteen until forced retirement, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night will stay this fatherly courier from his swift completion of self appointed roundly nada impossible mission to a light like a bolt to Bend, Oregon.
Thus, dexterous fingers intuitively, instinctively, and busily circled round my heavily padded faux santa claus size waist, where the Kuiper belts got buckled, Asteroid clasps cinched, and Dwarf men uber zippers drawn snugly into a custom fit pod like contraption.
Elaborate panels of buttons, knobs, and switches appeared when this air borne civilian ready to blast off into the great beyond.
Aeronautical engineering avocation well versed in the pseudo rigor mortis stasis, sans keeping this five feet and ten inch athletic body rigid for untold hours (yes, or even days at a stretch) amateur astronaut, Cosmo (funneling) naught, and English major trained me to the precautions when a human being approached the velocity of light.
Extraterrestrial futuristic gewgaw hedged intrusion of extreme atmospheric pressure.
Intubation asper nutriment (even though the journey across the celestial vault, would practically clock more than a few minutes), the sheer excitement to surprise the punim compromised an ordinarily hearty appetite.
I would not miss attending the academic achievement of thee offspring fraught with mastering rudimentary particle physics for the world wide web, which aptitude she, (who refers to herself as Shay) acquired with flying colors.
Hence, thru thick or thin, hell or high water, this practitioner viz laissez-faire promised himself to take a bold risk.
Ooh, a shiver did tingle down the small hairs of my back at the utter pleasant shock of surprise, when this joyously earthlinked capital one amusing chap would spring out from some secluded spot after the pomp and circumstance of the tearful feted milestone made manifest when this class of two thousand and seventeen exploded with joie de vivre at the special stepping stone.
Though told to thine charmingly fond, indubitably loved, and officiously regaled unpretentiously young woman that neither this conniving father, nor idealistic languorous otherwise rational uber xing missus would attend this once in a lifetime poignant performance, the playful goniff within this overgrown “boy” found schemes to transcend, triumph and trump the travails defying overcoming odds to attain sought after goal.
Prior to embarking on near blink oven nigh transportation, a deathly stillness sans pall cast dark shadows where me countenance strove to bask as like a avast limned idyllic patch, now invisible jack hammers chattering within the usual tour de force core of droning heart wrenching torment, which triggered an unstoppable, invincible, and inconsolable biblical geyser of tears streaming down me smooth shaven cheeks.
Sudden pangs of nostalgia for the salad days (yes, they got unexpectedly, maddeningly and frequently tossed – boot lettuce turnip vines frankly zapping this despairing biological beastie cry boy i.e. “sir”) akin to a basket case of one deplorable whimpering, sniffling, and oozing remembrance of fragmentary occasions when the girls erupted (like puppies yowling, yipping, and yawping with dog gone excitement) at the mere mention to spend time at their favorite “sand” playground.
How such simple and basic activities ushered forth an untrammeled vivacity wakening the child within myself (more’n a doe zen full moons ago), a flashback that rent asunder any attempt to activate the podcast, which flashback appeared to predominate a formerly giddy state of mind.
Though disheartened with scattered mental debris (and an importance to validate than vitiate this dismal deep seated depression), an all out attempt (my very mediocre college try plumbing the depths courtesy mine temple mount) made to launch self into the void.
Just when dark shadows blackened all hope seemed lost in space at the outer limits of the twilight zone, (and the once in a billion – er…a slight hyperbolic statement… - chance to assimilate, bask cerebrally, divinely evoke fascination gamete hopscotch invoked, journey kindling life manifesting nameless outcome, prithee, queen royally slumbering tonight), the alt-rock totally tubular voodoo wresting yik yak (paddy whack give this dog a bone) zoomed into warp speed woof out any commands barked into the voice processing gizmodo.
Off went this sole sailor, soldier, and tinker toy spy zipping away into the heart of darkness.
The sheer blindingly crushing velocity (faster than posted speed limit) stretched the starlight into infinity, whereat the vacuum of deep space nine vector of space/time continuum produced Doppler effect, this low-pitched threshold wham (bam thank you ma'am) could be felt as being heard.
Aside from the fleeing rainbow gathering far into the distant Cosmos, a barrage of hail size residue (possibly from an aborted planet that never materialized, or perhaps one potential “Mother Earth” miscarried), this comfortably numb skull of mine with a neck row feeling immovable like a led zeppelin, tautly tethered torso, nonetheless, a basic human instinct invited a wave of rapturous, luscious, and joyous delight suffused this humble being.
How grand (when nowhere near the finale) to extol firsthand, this great homogeneous uniformity throughout the vastness encompassing, incorporating, and manufacturing a kaleidoscope of colors that blended into one prime mortally a self coined metaphorical soupy egg drop broth.
Take a message to Michael
Another challenge for resident polymath not me, but concerned thee missus, whose name I cannot mention in mixed company, she prefers to humble herself to anonymity.
Though modest and confident, and as an aside able to sweet talk her way out of unexpected win/win crisis resolution, (which natural born talent to finesse confrontations, especially arising when strong arm of the law unexpectedly presents an unsettling quandary, her chutzpah called into action), whether pedestrian circumstances to sew as a swift tailor and to the uninitiated said spouse evinces a harried style.
We patronize Michaels (which craft of thee wife) even applied to her mock up as a pseudo surgeon, I can attest being stitched up tight as a drum courtesy tough as steel thread after slamming the trunk door on the pinky of my right hand.
After we went shopping at Wegmans husbandly duty (and contractual non binding obligations) witness yours truly packing groceries in the trunk of (technically mine) car, a white 2020 Hyundai Elantra, yours truly absent mindedly found the pinkie of his dominant hand left dangling by a thread after I slammed trunk (North American English) or boot (British English) on said fifth digit in medicine, recognized as the most ulnar and usually smallest finger of the human hand, opposite the thumb, next to the ring finger.
The emergency medical kit kept in the glove compartment of our vehicle rightly came in (pun intended) handy for just such a crisis, whereby with tender loving care issued from the wife who quickly sprung to action and whipped out her trusted implements of the trade.
Yours truly (me) bit the figurative bullet when my own Florence Nightingale ably, eagerly, readily and willingly gently took hold of my damaged digit and (without applying any anesthesia) gingerly pushed the nib of a medium sized sewing needle attached with flesh colored thread into the dangling darn little finger of mine. Among the requisite material, she retrieved a perfectly fitting splint, and finally wrapped the injured bad finger with an adhesive gauze.
The entire operation transpired while (sharp pain throbbed, pulsed, and needled throughout my entire right arm), I manned the vehicle with my left hand just barely avoiding one collision after another, yet could outgun police.
In an effort to head back to our one bedroom apartment in Schwenksville, an inadvertent heavy footed proclivity arose, whereby my skinny right leg pressed a tad to strong upon the accelerator, (excessive miles per hour speedometer considerably over the speed limit), but lame excuse of mine promptly dismissed, when stopped by an aggressive macho officer nervously explaining, jabbering, and orating away that every other driver appeared to be passing me left and right. Reasonable explanation immediately regarded as no dice, which compelled saving amazing grace angel in disguise to exit the passenger side of our automobile and brazenly embellished a spur of the moment cockamamie story, that beloved, fawned over, nursed back to health hirsute husband - gratis mother of invention wife, he unexpedly experienced feeling severely uncomfortably numb exhibiting a deathly (hallowed) pallor closely approximating rigor mortis, thus while self taught nurse satisfactorily bandaging a nearly severed littlest phalange of poor hubby, said twenty four hour attendant (and lifelong contra dance partner) oblivious to his sudden paroxysm completely disabling cognitive abilities.
Stagnation
"There's something about change that shakes me to my bones."
The frail woman shivers and tucks herself into her shawl. Her rocking chair slowly teeters; it could have been from last century or the one before. Like the lady in it, age is hard to determine, and the only certainty is everything in this house is old.
They sit together on the screened porch. Around them, white paint chips, flakes, and fades, but the haint blue ceiling is vibrant and fresh. Several two by four floorboards are yellow and unpainted, replaced recently by grandchildren or friendly neighbors.
Her chair has never known the business end of a paintbrush. It has a shine only decades of use can leave on the armrests; natural cedar color peeks around her housecoat and lap blanket.
"You've been her a long time, ma'am?" The man is an hourly temp employee from the Census Bureau. He is from the next county over, but he's never been to this little house along the marshes of Savannah.
"All my life, boy." She says this without the bite the words themselves imply. To her, every man is a boy; she remembers when radio was the entertainment for a household and Sears & Roebuck sold mail order homes.
"Does anyone live with you?"
She pauses her rocking and looks over at her guest. Her eyes are sharpened points in a nest of crow's feet, and she considers her words. "Live? No. Stay? Always."
"Come again?"
"Change ain't the only thing that scares me, boy. Staying the same, bein' still, goin' stagnant. Them that won't change; they scare me more."
"I don't understand, ma'am."
"One day I hope to move on. I've seen what happens to them that stay." She looks up at her blue ceiling and shivers in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
"So I should mark you down as the only resident of this household?"
"You do your paperwork how you need to, son. I reckon it's true enough I'm the only one alive in the house."
The census man finishes his sweet tea, wishes the lady a good day, and pretends not to notice shadows dance across his path through live oaks back to his car.