Each day I wish for light. I’d wish upon a star if I could. But there’s none to see.
When the stars have all vanished where do you make your wish? Answer: In the darkness.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic. There is light, but it comes from generators and batteries, and fire. Mostly fire, since the rationing for all but essential communications.
I never realized, not until these “days” of late, how much light there actually is in the night sky. Since there is no natural light any longer, we have only night, at all times, but not even that, not really because this is darker than night. This is a windowless room. …
It’s not hard to get lost after losing someone.
I’d began getting nervous around nine-thirty. Ellie should’ve been home two hours earlier; she hadn’t responded to my texts or calls. It wasn’t like her.
Ever the pessimist, it was in my nature to expect the worst. But after one too many of her knowing glances early in our relationship, I told her I’d do better. And Ellie (ever the optimist) reminded me that despite my fears, the worst rarely if ever happened. It was good advice, her voice in my head, reminding me. And for almost five years I did better. …
A man who lives for quiet gets his wish and finds himself in a living death.
He was a quiet man living in a quiet house on a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood. His wife (his second) was also quiet. The first, as you might’ve guessed, proved a bit too loud for his tastes.
Actually, life itself was too loud for this man. It always had been.
As a child, his parents could not have pets (despite wanting some) because he couldn’t take the barking of dogs or meowing of cats or chirping of birds. …
On March 23, 2020, not long into America’s saga with COVID 19, Lt. Governor Dan Patrick of Texas suggested Old People Should Volunteer to Die to Save the Economy.
What can you say? Texas sure has some interesting characters with provocative ideas about the free market.
Sadly, this chud is not alone in his perverse patriotic fervor for citizen culling. Which is a little hypocritical (remember death panels?) and a lot medieval, considering the numerous alternative approaches available. Such as this. Or this. Or this.
As a pretense for sound economics, thinning the herd is akin to throwing innocents into volcanos. …
Years ago, I played guitar in a rock group. This is a journal entry from one of our stranger shows.
My band Mohenjo performed last Sunday at St. Peter’s Oktoberfest in Chester County, PA. The event’s advert made the following claim:
“10 Bands! All Kinds of Music from Soft Rock to Country!”
This caused me some concern.
If pressed, I’d describe Mohenjo’s music as a bouillabaisse of techno-tribal pop-metal-funk infused with socio-political themes and a sprinkle of influences from across the avant-garde gamut.
Not soft rock. Not country. Not even close.
How did we find our way onto such a bill? Thanks to the networking prowess of our DJ/Keyboardist Jeff, a man of many connections. …
If you’re reading this, you’re probably a fan of Amazon Prime’s hit series The Expanse. If not, and you’re simply wondering who Amos Burton is and why people are calling him names, beware: Spoilers Ahead.
Originally airing on SyFY, the space opera focuses on the warring factions of Earthers (like Amos), Martians, and Belters (as in Asteroid Belt).
It was recommended to me by a work colleague, a kindred spirit with a taste for complex sci-fi. When I told him I’d finally taken his advice and indulged in a pandemic-induced binge-watch of all four seasons (a fifth is on the way), his response was “What’d ya think of Amos? …
Depending on the company you keep, a discussion may be more like a monlogue.
Uncle Pete. Look at you. Here, in my home. The man, the myth, the legend. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again.
It’s been too long, and I know that’s my fault. In fact, I should start by apologizing.
I’ve been feeling awful about us losing touch over the years. You were always there for me, unlike everyone else. Forever you kept your cool, no matter how much I complained or carried on. I never said thank you for your generosity, for the many times you bestowed upon me those glorious pearls of wisdom. I took you for granted. …
“You got some mail today,” Jamie says as I enter the foyer. “It’s over on the kitchen table.”
Jamie is my new roommate. He rents the second bedroom. My commute is a long one, so he’s usually home by the time I arrive.
“Thanks,” I say while loosening my tie. I crack open a beer and shuffle through the mail with little interest.
“Junk. Junk. Bill. Junk…huh. Interesting.”
“What is it,” Jamie asks.
“Don’t know. No return address.”
Inside the envelope is a paper folded in thirds. A hand drawn map of some kind.
“Look at this,” I say before realizing Jamie is right over my shoulder. …
I wrote a letter. It was a short letter, maybe a paragraph or so. A short letter with a short paragraph that somehow was still too long. Then I made an edit or two or three (or four) until eventually, the paragraph became a sentence. A single perfect sentence. It said everything it needed to say. No more no less.
But why would anyone read this sentence? What would compel anyone to take the time to read my words, especially in a world where no one has any time to give?
Honestly, I could barely read the sentence myself. …
“Long time, no see,” began the message.
A voice from the past, an old friend, someone I haven’t spoken to in twenty years. But it seems like yesterday. There’s a reason for that.
I have a little problem. It’s called Dyschronometria. Basically, this means I can’t sense the passage of time. Twenty minutes, twenty years — it’s all the same to me.
We’d had a falling out, this friend and I, which is pretty typical, inevitable actually. People tend to become frustrated with me and then their frustration frustrates me. In fact, I’m still as put-off today as the day this friend and I parted company. For me, no time has passed. …