meme in motion · short fiction

Shaggy Dog

2011-03-29T22:53:00.001-07:00

     He called himself a sailer and spelled it with an e because he'd never been to sea. He walked with the wind to his back wherever that would take him—sometimes back and forth or around in big arcs.

     Generally it took him east, over the Sierras, over the Rockies by a most circuitous route. It didn't matter to him. He had his debit card, and an inheritance too large for him to feel he deserved it.

     He learned early not to speak of that. He was not the paladin come to save the day.

     Leaving a cheap motel one morning, dressed in his dingy clothes and the best walking shoes according to the magazine reviews, he found a dog. Or, as he later came to think, the dog found him.

     "Are you just out for a walk dog?" he asked her. She followed three feet behind him and didn't say anything. "Because that's what I'm doing and I don't need a dog."

     The sun shone warm, the wind blew south by southeast into a forest, and the dog followed him all day long.

     "I suppose you think I'll feed you now." The dog had laid down next to the fallen tree where he sat. She didn't look up when he pulled out the other half of a sub sandwich.

     "If I did that pretty soon I'd have two dogs following me then three, four, and eventually every stray dog in the world would be following me. That's the way it goes. Unless I chase them off, but then why them and not you?"

     The dog thumped her tail twice on the ground. "Or more likely you'd chase them off. That's the way it really goes. And the other dogs, they'd take a vote and vote to chase you off because you wouldn't share. I wouldn't get a vote. If they could work the ATM and buy food they'd chase me off too."

     Now the dog looked up at him, at the sandwich, and thumped her tail three times fast, then two, more slowly.

     He took a bite and studied the ground around him, looking for a good place to pitch his little tent.

     "Did you ever hear the story of the camel and the tent?"

     The dog got up and slowly walked away, tail low.

     Maybe I spoke too sharply. he thought. He whistled and the dog stopped. "Come here girl, I'll share my sandwich."

     The dog turned her head back and he held out the sandwich. "Come here girl. Have some." He tore a chunk off and put it on the ground. The dog came and took it in one quick movement. Her tail wagged low.

     "You can't stay in motels. And most states have a leash law. I know this one does. So I can't take you with me." He took two bites off the sandwich and gave her the rest.

     "So now you've had some food. Now git. Git!" He stomped his foot on the last syllable and the dog shuffled back, half turned, and barked. "Go on. Get out of here. He raised his arms and stomped toward her. Go find a family with a house and kids and a warm place for you to sleep. Go on."

     The dog completed her turn and slunk away, looking over her shoulder and barking small barks.

     "It's not my fault you were born a dog."

     Back at his pack he pulled out his tent and a package of crackers. Later he woke to the sound of a distant howl. There's gotta be 15 billion dogs on this planet. he thought. I can't be responsible for all of them and I don't want to be responsible for any of them. I didn't do it. "It's probably some coyote."

     He listened to the howls until they stopped, then went back to sleep.

     In the morning the dog was sleeping with her nose to the tent door. She got up and moved when he unzipped it. "Good morning Camel. I'll get us some eggs."

     He peeled two hard boiled eggs and threw one to the dog, who caught it neatly and swallowed.

     He broke camp all the while talking to the dog. "I'll have to buy a leash now. And dog food. And tags for you. Which means they'll want an address. I guess I could give them my lawyer's address. All the complications cascaded through his mind—what could he do when he wanted a motel room? —and he was tempted to chase the dog away again. Or take it to a shelter. There was an idea.

     That winter he bought a pickup truck with a camper and got a personalized license plate that said Sailer. Camel enjoyed sticking her nose out the window except when it snowed.

I write like
Rudyard Kipling

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Another Damned Squirrel

2011-03-27T15:59:00.003-07:00

When the first snow fell, Jake's wife Kim told him she wanted a fire in the stove. Sure the furnace works fine she agreed, but there's nothing like a good wood fire to warm the bones.

Being a careful and thoughtful man, Jake went to inspect the stove and make sure it was fit to use. The door with inset glass fit tight and the intake louvers moved freely as did the damper. Then he heard a noise, a scrabbling noise in the flue pipe somewhere beyond where it disappeared up the stone chimney.

Reaching into the chimney he found the lever for the flap inside and moved it to the open position. More scrabbling sound and a distressed cry could be heard. He worked the lever back and forth, making a lot more noise, hoping to scare whatever was in there back out. Though how it would get out, up a sheer steel pipe, was more of a mystery than how it came to be in there - so he stopped and thought about it.

He called his neighbor Pat, who worked as a handyman and did other odd jobs, including the cleaning of chimneys. Pat agreed to come over and have a look. When he climbed back down from the roof he shook his head. I looked in the pipe with a spotlight and didn't see anything but black in there.

Back inside, Pat tapped on the flue with a piece of wood while Jake listened. There was no scrabbling this time. They agreed that it must've got out somehow.

So Jake gathered wood and kindling and tore newspaper into strips, assembled the pile, and put a match to it. He watched and listened but nothing unusual happened. He felt relief. He added a few sticks of medium sized wood and one larger piece, then closed the stove's door.

The fire burned merrily. A minute or so later he heard a banging, a scrabbling, a screech that triggered his fight or flight response. Then the squirrel tumbled down from the flue, into the flame, and began scratching at the glass - on fire.

Jake began to reach for the handle but a thought, a vision stopped him: this crazed burning squirrel running through his house. Unable to look away, he watched it run around and around the fire, stopping to scratch at the glass each time. Jake smelled burnt hair.

Then it huddled in a corner and was still. Through the glass, more clearly through the scratches in the soot, he saw the squirrel as a steaming dark mass with stumps and an earless head

Though it was early in the day, he went to the liquor cabinet and poured a generous double shot and stared at the scratches while he drank it, as if they were some strange script he might decipher.

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Shooting The Squirrel

2010-04-12T19:08:00.003-07:00

    "This is a job for the Constable." That's what I told Buck Henderson. He's like a terrier: strong for his size and a bit of a yapper. He never stops moving.
    "Larson's fishing." That's what sealed my fate. I had a deal with Larson: I'd handle his office when he went fishing, and he'd do the same for me—like the time he summoned the volunteers and doused the fire in Stacy's Hardware.
    "Okay, I'm acting Constable. So why does the Constable need to shoot this squirrel?" I walked toward my truck to find a report form, gesturing at Buck to follow.
    "Because I can't! It's in town limits. I'm telling you, we've tried every kind of trap, spent a lot of money. This little monster ruins gardens and chews on everything. It's enormous, and it's fast. It chases cats!"
    "Chases cats?" I was stalling. "Did you see it chasing cats?" I grabbed the manila envelope where I keep forms and pulled out the sheaf. "Let me have you fill out this form here." That silenced him for a while.
    When he finished I attached the report to a clipboard. "Thank you Mr. Henderson, this report will be given the proper attention."
    "Don't give me that 'proper attention Mr. Henderson' nonsense Haj. I knew you when you were a brat. I voted to hire both you and Larson. You both do a good job and right now you need to do that job." He had his head cocked just a little, his arms crossed.
    "Right now my job as Town Manager is making sure this excavation. . ." I gestured toward the kid digging a tree planting hole. ". . .is done properly and serve as safety lookout for the excavator. Larson'll show up soon enough. I'll give him the report first thing."
    I knew I was in trouble when he pulled a print of the town's charter from a back pocket. "The Constable,” he read, “shall perform all duties of animal control in a timely manner for the public safety and health.” Then he waved it at me. “We have a dangerous animal trapped in Patricia Coleman's yard and we need it shot now."
    Trapped. Buck described the situation as a cluster of wire aviaries in a back yard that was, itself, fully screened. The squirrel had pushed through a seam and hadn't found a way out yet.
    "Patricia is having a nervous breakdown. That squirrel had her birds so worked up she had to take them all indoors—and she says some of them are sure to die from stress if she doesn't get them back in their aviaries. These are valuable birds Haj. Rare species."
    "I don't have a firearm with me. I'll have to get one. I'll meet you there in half an hour."

    At home I loaded a twenty gauge pump shotgun with large bird shot. My wife looked at me weird. "I have to shoot a squirrel. I'll explain it tonight." She quirked her lips, nodded, then leaned in for a kiss.
    "Be careful, they're much more dangerous than rabbits you know.... Make a good shot Haj, don't make it suffer."

    The Colemans are a founding family and the old family home shows this in its small size and mature appearance. The white clapboard house is well painted but the fence and screen frame have sprung peelings beneath the mat of vines that cover them. No squirrel was in sight when I pushed through the vine choked gate to the left of the house with Buck close behind.
    We searched around warily. I don't know about Buck but I had thoughts of a leaping squirrel biting my face. I flushed the squirrel out from behind a rusted car door propped against—or maybe propping up—the fence. It ran straight up the screen and hung from the vine covered top, chattering at me. It was magnificent.
    I stood there gaping at it for several seconds. A normal gray squirrel weighs about a pound and a half to two pounds. This one was bigger than many cats: A good ten pounds at least. Buck came up behind me.
    "That's a great shot. You can get it clean."
    Reluctantly I raised the shotgun and settled it to my shoulder, took off the safety, and steadied my aim. The squirrel stared at me. It blinked. My cell phone rang. Reprieve. For a moment at least.
    It was Larson. "Haj, what the heck are you doing? Shooting a squirrel? Why the hell for? Why don't you just catch it?"
    I had to explain Buck's contention that traps were useless against this sport of nature, that all methods had been tried. Then I had to listen to Larson do everything but call me a moron. I think I might have liked that better—get right to it and be done. Instead I heard just what sort of idiot I was in fine detail. There was checking facts and reading the cursed manual. In the manual was proper procedure Larson explained as he emerged through the gate and into the yard, cell phone in one enormous hand, his fishing rod and a game bag in the other.
    We both hung up. I could tell he was both amused and a little angry by the smirk on his mouth and lowered brows. The squirrel ran over our heads on the screen, dropped and sped across to the other fence and into a dense cluster of vines. Buck and I ducked. Larson set his bag down and pulled line from the end of his rod.
    "Proper procedure calls for capturing with a catch pole. I don't have one with me so I'll improvise. Whatever possessed you to want to shoot it? Were you going to eat it?" He looked at my shotgun and then me with a disgusted shake of the head. He began to hum The Ride of The Valkyries as he tied a series of widely spaced single knots in a doubled length of line. "Hunting the squirrel, hunting the squirrel…"
    That was too much. I had to leave. I told Larson I had to get back to the excavation and headed for the gate.
“Oh no: You started this, you need to stick around and help me finish it.” said Larson. Looking at my face he smirked again. “Okay, no more smartass remarks. I’m sure you were doing what you thought you had to do. Even if it was wrong.”
    Buck Henderson moved between us. “He was doing what needs to be done. You’re the one making a mistake. You don’t think we’ve already tried catching this little devil? We’ve spent the last week trying to catch it. You’ve come in late to this game. Now you act like you know everything. You need to shoot that squirrel: It’s the only way to deal with it.”
    Larson looked down and tied another knot. “I’m the Constable here. I follow procedure. Shooting the squirrel is not procedure. Now I want you to go to that end of the yard, and Haj, you get over there.” He gestured to opposite corners of the side where we saw the squirrel disappear. He tied the loose end of the doubled line to the top loop of his fishing pole while we moved into position. “That should do it.”
    He looked at me, then my shotgun. “You got the safety on?” I nodded. “Good deal. Now I want you guys to make noise and move slowly toward the middle. As soon as it pops out, hold your position until I tell you different. Ready?”
The squirrel had nerves of steel. Buck and I were no more than six feet apart when it finally made a run up the fence and then across the top toward Larson. He got the pole end into its path but the squirrel was faster. It zipped around the pole and back behind the rusted car door. Larson grunted.
“All right. We got it trapped now. You two get on that side and I’ll just reach in and get it.”
    As the old saying goes, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. If you’re lucky, you will. Larson reached in with his pole and the squirrel leaped out and onto his face. I could see its hind legs digging away like it was running full speed. Larson was shouting—I’m not going to call it screaming—and wrestling with it. He said some bad words and moved his hands in front of his eyes. It stopped moving its back legs and clung to his face like it would a tree trunk. I could tell it was biting at his fingers. Larson said more bad words and stumbled back against the fence, which promptly collapsed under his weight, him going down with it. The squirrel let loose and headed for the hole.
    “Shoot it! Shoot it!” shouted Buck. I moved my shotgun into position but the squirrel was moving way too fast, and there were too many things behind it that shouldn’t be shot. I lowered my weapon and looked at Larson.
    “Call an ambulance.”
    Buck looked frustrated but he pulled out his phone while I inspected Larson up close. He was a mess.
    “Screwed that up didn’t I. Should’ve shot that little bastard.”
    “I told you so. Serves you right.” I glared at Buck and he started pushing buttons on his phone.
    I got the bleeding stopped—Larson would have some nasty scars. The ambulance showed up and took him away. Buck and I blocked up the hole in the fence best we could. I told him to call me if he saw the squirrel again, and I would bring my shotgun. He looked smug.
    We never saw that squirrel in town again, but we do hear stories now of extra large squirrels north of town. Larson has written a new procedure for dealing with them.

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Burnt

2010-03-03T07:26:00.006-07:00

"I say we do the motherfucker right now, get the money and get the fuck out of here." I'm pissed and scared and wired a little too tight from two bumps of crank. '

"If we pop him the cops'll be all over it. We don't need that shit. There's gotta be a better way to deal with this piece of foot slime." Sickly yellow streetlight glints where scars don't cross Vee's cheek. A hippie once told him the scars formed the hexagram 23: Breaking apart. Maybe that's why he did the hippie like that. It was six months before that dweeb could walk again.

"I'm thinking we set him up somehow so somebody else wants him dead."

"That's chickenshit." I say, "We do him now and be somewhere else when it hits the fan.

Vee glances over my shoulder. "Motherfucker's coming this way. He looks like he's pissed.

I turn around and see his piece so I quick pull and pull bam bam bam and he gets a couple of shots off before he's twitching a little all sprawled on the asphalt and there's Vee down too—breathing real bad in short sharp gasps. The powder smoke scrapes down my throat and clears my nose.

"Wipe off your piece and give it to me asshole, quick before I'm dead." Vee says with blood coming out of his mouth. So I do. He sights at the body and pulls one off. "Now take mine and get the fuck out of here. You take care of Jazz..." He coughs and a lot of blood jumps out and down his shirt. It's burnt orange in the streetlight and I'm awake in bed with the sheets all twisted and damp. Damn it's hot.

Twenty years and I still have that dream. Twenty years tomorrow—which means today since it's after midnight. There's no more sleeping tonight so I turn on the light to see blood on the sheets again. Not much this time.

A strong stench of sulfur and solvents—those fuckheads downstairs must be cooking a batch.

The really fucked up thing is that wasn't even the way it happened. It wasn't on the street, it was in the dude's apartment. It was daylight. Setting him up was my idea. We were in there to find our money and maybe something we could use against him. It wasn't like we could take the asshole to court: "Your honor, on August 14th the defendant took twenty five hundred dollars from me and my partner, all the money we had, and promised to deliver a shitload of crank in return. He gave us some powder but it wasn't what he promised."

That ain't the way it works.

The blood's fading now, going, gone.

The dude, Dale something, he came home from work early. The rest went down about the same as the dream. Then I got out of there, over the back wall to another apartment complex where we stashed my car.

Take care of Jazz. Vee's last words to me. I fucked that up too.

The fucksticks downstairs are banging around yelling about something. I'm not going to work today. I'll call in sick.

Jazz, she could've shot me when I told her. "You got my father killed you motherfucker? Get your shit and get out. Now. Don't fuck with me—I'll call some of daddy's friends."

I told her Vee's last words and she laughed in my face. "You can't even take care of yourself loser. Fuck off."

Me a loser. Yeah. At least I didn't beat her like the asshole she ended up with. Then he got her busted and they both did some long time. Shit, she looked bad when she got out. She let me take care of her then, for about a week, and then she was gone again. She died in Albuquerque. She was riding in a stolen car running from the cops. They hit a median doing over a hundred.

There's a loud bang and fire like an orange cloud fills the room. God it hurts. Then darkness.

The crack of glass outside. Voices. Vee's voice—and the other sounds familiar too. It's got so I can't tell when I'm dreaming anymore. From my second floor window the two men across the street look like Vee and Dale in the pale yellow light.

Now I'm walking across the asphalt, gun in hand, scared and pissed. Dale turns and shoots me. I hit Vee twice before I go down. Our blood burns orange in the city's light.

I write like
William Gibson

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

A Little Piece of Mind

2010-02-28T22:08:00.003-07:00

"All I need is a little piece. The doctor can grow it bigger. Then I can think better."

I can't decide what annoys me, the perfectly modulated calm of her voice or the slow plastic clatter of her pacing on the kitchen floor tiles. I sigh. It's the smell of rotting, so faint maybe I imagine it.

"Mom, I know you need this, but I've told you already, I can't do it." I wait for the inevitable repeat of why. How far she's fallen from the Science of The Christ.

The pacing stops. Silence. Looking up, I see her. (Why do I still think of her as her? What is left to be called her? The voice? It's not even her voice.) She has paused near the sink window and stares out to the garden she and Dad first planted after I left home.

"Do you love me?"

A straight lunge to the guilt. Do I lie? I realize I don't have to lie to give her the answer she wants, needs. So what if she looks like a robot. If there's anything left of her in there: "Yes, of course I love you. But I can't do this." Was that a sigh? I don't think I've heard her sigh since the prosthesis.

"I didn't ask to guilt you." A tiny red light begins blinking under her perfect silky hair. "I feel strange Steve. I see John in the garden. He has his trowel, the 'best damned trowel made.' Irises need planting in pregnant winter passings to summer falling snow melting spring flowers soil rich John, John dear..." her hand reaches out and stops. The red light becomes a steady glow and a high pitched alarm tone sounds.

"Mom?" My phone rings so I touch my ear reflexively, numbly. An artificial voice says: "This is The Bethel Medical Care Facility automatic notification system. We regret to inform you..."

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Life in Chocolate

2010-02-23T15:44:00.004-07:00

I have this problem with impulsiveness. When I was a rug rat I'd do whatever came in my head: throw my plate at the TV, paint walls and knickknacks with nail polish, play mummy with the cat and a towel. My mother beat that out of me—for a time. Then one day she wasn't big enough to beat me.

Yesterday I used dark chocolate to paint on the living room wall . It's my girlfriend—she's naked as a pearl. Mother hasn't said a word. Today I painted skulls on the tv frame using her new white nail polish. I have a full scholarship to the Preston Art College at 15. They're damned good skulls. She looks at them when she comes home from work, looks at my chocolate girlfriend on the wall and starts talking about death. She talks to me like I'm a child—like I've never had a gun in my face.

I take a big bottle of cola from the fridge and shake it up. She shuts up now. That force in the bottle—the soda wanting to burst out—we can both feel it. Using the tip of my blade I cut a thin wedge shaped hole in the plastic near the neck, and use the spray to shade the space between lines with careful arcs.

Mother tells me I'm a good painter. She says she even likes the picture of my girlfriend because I made her so pretty and she looks like life itself. While she says this she picks up the remote and turns on the TV. I get an impulse to throw the bottle at the TV. To throw it at mother. To throw it at the wall. What could she do? It doesn't matter. I toss the bottle in the garbage, and walk out to the market to find something reddish I can use to tint the painting's highlights. I'm thinking strawberry soda.

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Pinned

2010-02-07T14:56:00.004-07:00

He wakes up in darkness so utter it seems there are thousands of tiny lights dancing, swimming, looping around in tight little circles wherever he looks. He remembers nothing. For a brief eternity he simply is, watching the lights move with his gaze.

His first thoughts are questions: Are these angels? What's an angel? It doesn't occur to him to wonder who he is or where—until he remembers he's supposed to be home early tonight. Home?

He tries to move. It's like there's nothing to move. Don't Panic; he can feel his mouth parts, grittiness in every part, grittiness in his eyes, a hard grittiness pressing into an ear. He can swallow, dryly.

Closing his eyes, the lights remain, though he notices them shift position as he does so.

Anna. His wife's name is Anna. Anna with dark brown hair and down turned eyes. Anna with a little smile when he talks. Anna wants him home early tonight. Anna wants a divorce.

He starts to cough—not having realized he was breathing all this time, and the pain takes him almost back to his initial state of non-ness.

It's getting stuffy. He—his name is Paul!—hears dirt fall. There is almost as much gritty dust as air in what he's breathing now. Paul feels another urge to cough and manages to not let it spasm his diaphragm this time. Once was plenty.

More dirt falls. She's right. He's not good enough for her. She wants a family. She wants to live a child friendly life. He thought he did too when he married her. But it was boring. What he had to do to keep a job was humiliating.

A thud overhead and a heaviness of dirt lands on his face. There is nothing to breathe now. Anna the widow. She can get social security benefits for herself and their son. Widowed sounds better than divorced. Quick and final.

The lights dance brighter now. Memory fades, and for a brief eternity he simply is.

I write like
Gertrude Stein

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

A Cinder in The Shape of A Cross

2009-04-05T10:38:00.004-07:00

One body is disturbing, two a tragedy. Several is horrific, and a hundred is numbing. Many thousands, heaped and mangled, freckled with flies and starting to stink in the last rays of evening, that is an epiphany of mortality. Jeff leans against what is left of a low stone wall and weeps.

He remembers some parts of today: waking in agony under a pile of carnage; hard shapes pressed into his flesh; barely able to breathe; the struggle to free himself from the bodies of his mates bound to him with the stick of blood; that last push out to stumble and collapse in exhausted sleep.

Remembering yesterday: A montage of butchery, sliding and sticking in blood and worse. He had gone beyond hate, beyond all fear, to wanting death but daring it to take him. He does not remember what took him down and buried him beneath his friends. He can still feel that exaltation of ferocity, even as he weeps.

Far away, farther than a shout or wail could carry, what looks like women wrapped in shawls searching the dead for their kin. Some hold lighted lanterns and others crouch while lighting their own. Beyond them a dim shape like an em moves slowly; two living carrying one dead. He wants to laugh at them in their grief, if they could only hear it. If they could only know how glorious it was to die here, with so many, in that pounding, slicing, crushing carnival of death.

And him, the survivor, reborn from destruction, If they could only feel his ferocity and know it in themselves, they would never let fear so much as brush them again. Near his feet is a great sword, baptized in bloods. He grasps it and feels its power. Swinging it over his shoulder, Jeff strides out to teach them what he knows.

I write like
James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

The Prettiest One

2007-01-14T22:26:00.003-07:00

"Think for yourself schmuck!" ~Illuminatus!

Robert Anton Wilson 1932-2007

Whether you believe in a 'soul' or not, whatever your beliefs in the final dispostion of said alleged soul, no matter how you comfort yourself before sleeping: Last Thursday, Jan 11th, the entity humanity identified with the organic process designated Robert Anton Wilson and numerous numbers, severed relationships with that organic process and went wherever you think the good should go hereafter.

* * * * * * * *

One day, when my own organic process had been in operation for ~23 years, I found a copy of The Cosmic Trigger in the Science Fiction shelves of a bookstore--where, as the commonly held belief in causality allows me to posit without fear of heckling from the masses, it had been placed by an unknown entity. [cue weird stuff music] By another odd coincidence [music swells] I happened to have enough available ferns to purchase, not only the volume I'd already selected, but this one, labeled "Psychology" and sporting an intriguing graphic as well as promises to answer all questions and end fear or some such nonsense. This coincidence is substantially stranger than the first by the way. Armed with surplus funds and the reckless determination of a bored young adult, I took the bait and so my first ride through Wilson's House of Mirrors, Time Warps, Dislocalities, and Other Wonders of Your Mind. Whee! Again!

Any of you who have taken the ride know you don't walk away from it. I soon found myself living in the matrix Wilson described so eloquently. Synchronicity became so common it elicited no more than a chuckle unless of cosmic proportions. The Illuminatus! Trilogy came into my hands when someone left a copy of The Golden Apple at my mother's house and she gave it to me because it said Science Fiction on the cover. I didn't wait for Pixies to deliver the other two volumes; they went to the top of my books-to-find-and-purchase list. Whee! again, but no safety net this time.

I did not, do not, completely agree with RAW on a few substantial opinions--and he would think I was insane if I did agree completely with anyone--but my love for his dryly absurd humor and loving knowledge of humanity placed his works at the top of that buy list for many years afterward. I do enjoy a good mindfuck when performed by a lover of his caliber.

* * * * * * * *

Robert A. Wilson is the crazy, lovable, indelibly intelligent, terrain chewing, hard partying Uncle Bob who showed me portions of the world and myself I would've missed otherwise. Thank you Bob. I'm happy for you man. May the farce be with you always.

I write like
Arthur Clarke

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Sadaam's Last Dance

2007-01-04T23:03:00.002-07:00

Sadaam hung from a line no thicker than that between college students kissing on the commons and teenage soldiers clearing a neighborhood with careless lead and fire. Now millions watch Sadaam dance his last ticket on the grandest ballroom in history, children color in crayola mockeries and Leno makes another million with a wisecrack. We're told video games and cable tv have numbed us to violence and pain. When has it ever been different? Who ate picnic lunches in the shadow of a gallows? Who glorifies the most accomplished murderers in film, print, and song, because they could kill or frighten every detractor? Who cheered when the trap door gaped and the losing tyrant's feet danced on the nothing between death and the devil?

I write like
Ian Fleming

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Naturalmente

2006-12-19T21:54:00.003-07:00

Mira! Do you see it? It's right there: That real bright star. No, it's not a planet; it's a nova. I saw it. I saw it light up man. A plane? Fuck you dog. I know what it is. You think I'm stupid? Listen esse, I read about shit like this, about stars and planets and shit. You know, if there were people there, they'd all be dead now. Boom gone, like that. That light's old though. That star, it exploded a long time ago. Maybe a thousand years, maybe two... who knows. Look at it. Beautiful man. It's beautiful. Hey, later dog: I have to find my girlfriend. Show it to her. Stay cool bro.

María? María? Are you in here? Fuck girl, are you okay? Oh shit! Tonight? Shit. Let's get you to the emergency room. Too late shit. I'll help you--c'mon. I can borrow Tito's car--he said I could to take you. Oh fuck, I can see it. Oh fuck. I'll call 911. Where's the phone? I'll just call them up and they'll... Yeah, uh, hey it's my girlfriend, she's like having her baby right now. I mean I can fucking see it coming out right now. Oh hey, excuse my cursing. I'm just excited you know? So when can they get here? Oh yeah. My name is José Flores. María, what's the address here? Oh shit, it's coming out! The head, it's almost out. I gotta go. Fuck. María? What should I do. Ow! Fuck! You gotta let go. Let go so I can help you. I gotta hold the baby up so it don't fall. Here we go. It's a boy María. What do I do with this cord thing? Ok, ok, I'll leave it alone. He's beautiful María. How's it goin Jesús? Are you ok mijo? Hey, you know I don't care right? I mean that. I'll treat him just like he was mine. I promise. Mijo. Oh yeah, here. Here you go. He's beautiful María. You did good.

I write like
William Gibson

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

A Farewell to Fire

2006-12-17T14:47:00.003-07:00

Can you point to what's not there? Consider these words: Cold, dry, dark. They do not point to things but to absence; they tell us what's missing. I need a new word now, a new word of absence.

Some people said aliens snatched our home from the solar hearth. They're all dead now. Others claimed a singularity—that's a black hole, an absence wrought in superior substance—came too close. Still others blamed dark matter, that mysterious substance known only by mathematical necessity, and absence from our senses. They're all dead too. The cause was known by its absence from our knowledge. What use is knowledge?

Outside, the absence of heat does odd things to metals, makes them brittle and unpredictable. New tools must be made that can survive and serve. You need special tools to cut oxygen--fire is too dangerous, but first you have to know what it looks like. No, first you have to stay alive in its absence even as it lies in jagged sheets beneath your feet--careful, it's slippery; stay alive where touching the wrong part of your suit to an upthrust of nitrogen can blow a gusset and/or envelope you in a heat robbing plume of rapidly expanding gas. You must keep your mind on the task every second. Is it enough?

Nitrogen, you need that too so the oxygen won't over feed your fire. Nitrogen is easy to find: it was three fourths of the atmosphere. You walk above a frozen sea of nitrogen. You can cut it with a micro-torch, carve chisels to chip oxygen onto a nitrogen sled. Why bother?

How can I describe the absence of Loraine? What word tells another the only reason you live is missing? What term can be applied to finding a frozen hunk of meat shattered on the ice? A hunk of meat distinguished from billions of other hunks of meat only by what's missing. Does it matter?

What if there is no other? What can be said when no one can listen? Why would you write when there's no one to read it?

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

A Father's Work

2006-11-16T23:06:00.003-07:00

Cay uses the mouse to choose a file: 2003 Rick's HS Graduation.dv.avi.

Rick doesn't smile when Mona takes his picture or when he takes the diploma. His hair, so like Mona's: Dark auburn, black under stadium lights. Cay takes pride in the steadiness of the shots, the careful composition. He selects three segments, dragging each one to the timeline, then opens 1992 Rick's BDay.hi8.avi.

The horse pinata bursts open with Rick's first hit. That kid could swing a bat. Cay notices for the first time that Rick uses the bat to establish a clear area around him so he can pick up candy with the other hand uncontested.

Mona's voice from the kitchen: "Cay. I just talked to Helen, she's coming over here so she can ride with us."

"I'll be done with this in about an hour."

"Ok. I talked to the funeral director and he said they have a big TV and a DVD player."

"I'll bring a DVD player anyway, his may not like my DVDRs."

"I'll leave that to you then. I still have to make the potato salad and finish getting dressed."

Back to the video. Five seconds of candle blowing: Rick's face glowing, animated by sugar and attention. Fast forward scan. No other great shots; next file: 1996 Sept18 LL championships.hi8.avi.

Rick was the second tallest kid on the team and the best runner. He got two hits and two runs that game. Here's a great shot of him running to third, puffs of dirt illumined in his wake. Cay puts that segment in the bin.

Camping, motorcycles, swimming in Cody's lake, Rick's first date. Rick's first car. He was so proud. He smiles with his hand on the wheel.

Helen arrives. Cay can hear them talking but doesn't catch many words. Did Mona just say incendiary device?

Here's Cay's favorite clip: Rick fresh from boot camp, his lines crisp and clean - all shot with the XL-1 in DV. Rick's lean and tan, smiling easily, full of stories and dirty jokes. Cay pulls a shot of Rick striding from the secure area at the airport in full uniform and another from a night they spent playing cards at the kitchen table.

Mona at the door: "Are you almost done? We need to leave in half an hour and you're not dressed yet."

"How long does it take to put on a suit? Five minutes? I'll dress while this is burning."

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Pick of The Litter

2006-11-12T05:31:00.004-07:00

Alvina Monroe was the last person I expected or wanted to see at my door, but when I opened it and saw her permanently scowled face I managed to say hello almost like I meant it.

"I saw your sign about free kittens. I came over to have a look. Let me in so I can see 'em." Without waiting for an answer she surged forward and would have pushed into me if I hadn't moved to the side. As it was she stepped on my toes.

Once inside the foyer she stopped and sniffed. "Why is it so dark in here? It smells like a dirty kitchen." She looked me up and down, taking in my bare feet, old ragged T-shirt, and three days of beard. "No wonder you're still single. Where are the kittens, I want to see 'em."

She stepped into the living room so I grabbed her elbow firmly and steered her on down the hall toward the back door. "They're out back Alvina. C'mon, I'll show you."

She shook off my hand and strode to the back door with a speed and firmness that belied her white hair and 73 years of wrinkles. "You need to paint this place. Your father would never have let it look like this. He'd have been a good man if it weren't for his drinking."

My father drank two or three beers a night, four on Fridays and Saturdays. I'd never seen him drunk. "And maybe you'd be a better woman if you took a drink once in a while."

She didn't even slow down until she got to the door and pulled it open. Then she looked back at me impatiently. "Alcohol is for weaklings."

I smirked at her and gestured for her to go out the door. "Reality is for people who can't handle their liquor... like me."

Through the door, into my favorite place: Oak and elm my grandfather planted arched over walk framed garden beds and the small lawn I cut with the same push mower he and my father had used.

"You've kept this looking nice. Your grandfather would be proud." she said quietly, her upturned face, dappled by tree filtered sun, relaxed into a resemblance of pleasant. She looked at me, eyebrows raised: "So where are they? I have bread in the oven so I need to get back soon."

"Over in the gazebo. I tried to get her to keep them in the house but she insisted on the gazebo."

In the cut-down box, Dusty the purring mother lay on her side as six kittens jostled for position, their mews louder than the robin overhead expressing his disapproval of our intrusion. One kitten, a yellow tabby, came up for air from under his squirming siblings. With his back legs he kicked them off and grabbed a front nipple while they piled on again.

"I want a kitten for myself and one for my granddaughter. She's coming over tonight for dinner." Alvina reached down and scooped up a tortoise shell calico---like the mother. It immediately curled up in Alvina's hand and began licking her thumb. "I think she'll like this one. It's pretty."

She replaced the kitten and we stood watching them suckle. The yellow tabby once again let go of his nipple and began determinedly throwing the others to the side with his hind paws. Alvina reached down and grabbed him up. He sank his newly grown needle sharp teeth into her finger.

With her other hand she grabbed him by the scruff and held him up before her face, turning him slightly back and forth. Her damaged hand reached into a back pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it against the slowly bleeding finger. The tabby struggled silently, his claws fully extended. A small smile came to her face. I almost couldn't recognize her. "This one I like. He can take care of himself."

She looked at me, her brow scrunching together slightly. "I'll take him home now. Could you bring the other over tonight? Maybe you'd like to have dinner with me and my granddaughter."

I hesitated, mouth partly open. "Uh..."

"She's not like me, you'll like her. Come for dinner and bring that kitten with you. I'll see you at 6:30. Don't be late. Oh, shave first, I don't want my granddaughter to see you like this. And put on a decent shirt and shoes."

"I know how to dress myself."

Again that little smile transfigured her face. "I'm sure you do."

I write like
Anne Rice

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

A Good Match

2006-08-05T16:38:00.003-07:00

We were nearing 3 hours of glorious war, the kind of war I played for--especially since I was about to win.

I pounded ArCaN7734's base with my artillery while my mobile armor scooted through the mountain pass to the east for a full assault on his shield generators. Neither of us could keep anything in the air for more than a few seconds and both of our satellite systems were gone.

His base shield flickered off/on while his artillery fired on my armor. I lost a few units and he lost an armor factory. A good trade I thought until my own artillery rapidly slowed then ceased firing. A glance at the strategic map showed red spreading through my base. Shit. His shield went off and artillery began walking up my ranks--starting with my mobile artillery--leaving burning wreckage behind. Double Shit. A quick survey of my base showed dramatic smoke curls where my five scramblers had been, over a dozen red armor units--backed by a horde of cyborg infantry--demolishing factories, and a glimpse of worker units putting the finishing touches on a hardened portal inside my perimeter before that area went dark to me.

It took five more minutes but the end was inevitable. I offered surrender before my command center could be taken and ArCaN7734 graciously accepted. I opened a voice channel: "Hey, meet me at Pedro Wong's. I want to shake your hand and find out how you got saboteurs into my base." As I said this I sent a half key so we'd know each other.

A rough contralto voice answered: "I'll be there in a few, but I'm not giving my secrets away."

He was a she. Women war gamers are rare but those who do play are tricky and tenacious. Like ArCaN7734.

Pedro Wong's is never crowded though there are often several thousand people logged in at a time. Who you see there depends on where you enter from, your language preferences, and your filter settings.

Mine was set to only show the holder of the half key and block anyone else from seeing me.

Her avatar was nut brown, hairless as a spacer, thin, naked, and tall. She had one small conical breast on the left side of her chest, on the right a protruding baby's face stared at me before her angular head even turned my way. Because my avatar is short, the baby and I were eye to eye. In her hollow abdomen a diorama morphed from red fires of hell complete with tormented figures to a praying congregation to a mass orgy and back to hell again--all in less than a minute. I was so busy studying this display I didn't look up again until she spoke.

"General Madness I presume? Would you like a copy of this?" Her right hand gestured to her belly. The baby face sneered at me though her own remained impassive. Her eyes were dark green.

I knew I'd been rude and her formal manner, as much as the baby sneer, told me she'd taken offense.

"It's a BodyCelli. Public license. Here," the thin oblong shape of a vcard appeared in her hand and she held it out to me. "Take it."

I approached and touched the vcard; it vanished to quarantine. "Hey, uh, sorry for being rude." I took her hand and shook it. "Good game. You kicked ass." Her hand grasped mine for a moment then slipped away.

The baby face stuck a tongue out but it looked happy. Her thin elven lips curved up slightly. "You put up a good fight. You almost had me. I have a feeling you'd win a rematch." The baby rolled its eyes.

I waved that off and we chatted a few more minutes about the match. She told me her name was Belinda and I told her mine was Jose. I offered to buy stims but she had other plans. That was the first time I met her.

The second time was at Pedro Wong's again. Belinda came near to me while I spoke to friends and gestured come here with her head. The baby face scanned the crowd.

I grabbed my drink and walked up close enough to breathe on her breast. The baby chortled and wrinkled its tiny nose. She took a step back. "Do I have to sit down to get you to look at my face?"

I was drunk enough not to care this time. I scrunched up my nose and blew in the baby's face. "Sure, go ahead and sit down." I looked up into mirror eyes with tiny black holes where pupils would be. "Cool eyes you got there babe. Make you look real scary. I like that, sometimes." I looked down at her breast with its dark hardening nipple. The baby face leered at me and blew a bubble. I turned ambient volume down.

Two black metal chairs and a shiny black table appeared next to us. She sat in one chair and I the other. "You look shorter than you did last time. Why are you so short?"

"I'm the same size. Maybe you got taller? Don't worry. I'm as big as I need to be." The baby and I exchanged leers again.

"You're obnoxious when you're drunk."

I looked up to her mirror eyes.

"I like that. . . . Sometimes." Thin lips pulled back to reveal sharpened teeth.

"Well good. I'm only drunk sometimes. Do you always look scary?"

In answer her body softened. Her breast grew bigger, rounder, and sagged just enough to suggest heaviness. She blinked and pale gray eyes looked at me. Her lips filled and reddened to a rosy blush. When she spoke her teeth showed small and straight. "Only to strangers. Friends see this."

Her smile sent a stim like sensation through me. It was better than a brain shot. I felt my real body respond vigorously. Her avatar morphed back to the lean killer look and only the baby smiled. "But you like me scary tonight, don't you."

"That's a real tough call. It's not like you Are scary, even looking like this. But I like the fierceness, the animal readiness to kill or be killed. I admire that. But that other version. Wow. True Art that is. I could study that one for a long time."

"Your name isn't Jose. It's Brandon, but you usually go by your middle name: Thomas, or Tom." The baby face looked impassively at me and the tiny holes of her pupils seemed like the barrels of polished cannon.

"Ok; now you're scary." I almost clicked out of there but the majority opinion said stay. Why, I didn't know. Sometimes I'm a little slow.

Softly: "Don't go. I'm not a threat to you. I just had to know. And I thought you should know that I do."

"And you wanted to scare the piss out of me." My own face was as impassive as hers.

"Yes. I wanted to scare the piss out of you." And she smiled at me from version 2. I started laughing. Her throaty laugh blended well with mine.

"My name is Rosemary. Rosemary Munoz. Here's my profile." She reached across the table with another vcard in hand. "We're a good match. The test said we're complementary."

I reached out, "I can believe that." touched the vcard, then took her hand again. The baby closed its eyes and smiled.

We danced that night, in every way the virtual world allows. I even kissed the baby.

I write like
Arthur Clarke

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Mystic Encounter

2006-07-23T05:39:00.003-07:00

I see the street preacher before he sees me, but he's faster, not caring how silly he looks. He wears a clean black tshirt and dirty black jeans. A variety of talismans pinned and hung mark him as a mystic, the persistent sort with madness in his eyes.

"You sir are already dead." He intones, using a practiced hopping crab-step to keep up with me, his hardware clacking and clinking a rhythm behind his words.

I look fully at him and see the expected madness. I wonder how much I have to give to make him disappear.

"Right now you are a spermatozoon, one of millions trying to reach the egg. Only one will fuse with her, the rest will be refused."

I decide a five might encourage him so I reach into my left pocket to get at my small change.

"Will you be the one? I sense you are close. I can help you."

I count four quarters with my fingers and pull them out. "That's a fascinating concept you've got there. Listen, here's a donation to your cause. Keep up the good work." I hold the coins out and he automatically reaches with his cupped right hand for me to drop them in.

When they land his dark nailed fingers fold over the coins and he puts them in his pocket. "Right now you are living one of the potential lives; reviewing it so you can decide whether you want to be the one or try again in another race."

At least his cosmology is mostly consistent so far. Some of these guys make no sense at all. I'm tempted to bait him but that would make me late. "Sorry, I really don't have the time to give your intriguing theory the attention it no doubt deserves. I have an appointment."

"True love is the key that unlocks the egg to let you in. Find it and win."

I give him a sideways nod and increase my speed, trying to lose him on a tight turn around a crowded corner. I don't see her until a split second before we collide, but even as our chests impact I reach around her so when she bounces, she won't go far.

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Reflection on a Glass Tiger

2006-07-17T12:37:00.002-07:00

You're face to face with a glass tiger but it's ok; you have a hammer in your pocket. But taking it out, you see that hammer is made of glass too, and you think: "Maybe if I hold it right."

So you get that hammer handle-first in your hand and heft it for feel, as the tiger cross paces its front paws while its haunches remain all but unmoving. Pray for that hammer holding as the tiger lines up on you, crouching so its breath stirs the dust on the ground.

Clear and dangerous the tiger comes at you, there with your glass hammer, charging at its limit like a locomotive god. The hammer molds to your hand and falls of itself, precisely.

Even shattered a quarter ton of tiger carries a lot of inertia, so its shards flow over and around you; nicking, slicing, and lodging in uncomfortable places - leaving you buried to your knees.

You brush off with bleeding hands, and the bloodied glass of the hammer goes back in your pocket, intact. Along with that hammer, but held in your skin and nerves, you'll carry with you that tiger and the moment the hammer fell - when the tiger looked you in the eye, and you saw yourself.

I write like
Rudyard Kipling

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Fleetwood Mac remixed

2006-07-17T12:31:00.001-07:00

ol' mac has a fleetwood, he's a rollin' man
he calls it gypsy, or sometimes purple dancer

with the world turning on the winds of change
he's miles away on monday morning
with no place to go 'cept the mission bell

world's in a tangle and then some he says
they got me hypnotized over my head
that gold dust woman is my songbird
and a landslide of crystal dreams

last night down endless street the chain
coming home to cool water the second time
black magic woman, the born enchanter
mystified the city, no questions asked

a tusk thrown down coming home
seven wonders in the empire state
not make believe coming your way
or a hellhound hard to find but
running through the garden with
a woman of a thousand years and

emerald eyes said go your own way
but I'm never going back again to
those nights in estoril the way I feel
these strange times over and over
and hollywood hi ho silver springs
heros are hard to find

stand on the rock with the station man
and lizard people tell little lies
peacekeeper revelations hold me
tango in the night and morning rain
closing my eyes with the cold black night
jumping at shadows, can't afford to do it

something inside of me brown eyes
trying so hard to forget
twist of fate freedom and future games
of goodbye angel, got to move
worried dream night watch
and eyes of the world

isn't it midnight? bare trees and bright fire
love that burns straight back
when I see you again
make me a mask doctor brown
come a little bit closer child of mine
skies the limit in the back of my mind
looking for somebody, love minus zero
the green manalishi dreamin' the dream
that's enough for me dragonfly

before the beginning
my heart beat like a hammer
I got it in for you, I know I'm not wrong
second hand news everybody finds out
destiny rules one more night in miranda
everywhere, forever, don't stop
you make loving fun

I write like
Arthur Clarke

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

First Contact

2006-07-17T12:21:00.002-07:00

A rec room.

He's sprawled on a couch. "You know, I think you like me."

Sitting on a stool, she looks away and kicks her legs slightly. "Why do you think that?"

"Maybe it's just wishful thinking." He lowers his gaze so she can look back without meeting his eyes.

She turns back. "Wishful thinking?"

Looking up to catch her scrutinizing survey, "Why don't you come over here and sit with me for a while."

Looking away again, "I, um, think I should be..."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Can we forget that I made an ass of myself, and go back to just talking?"

"Well um, I'm... I'm... acting silly aren't I." Turning back with a small smile, "That was kinda sudden. I... You're right, I do."

"Does that mean you're going to come over here and sit with me?"

Her pursed lips can't disguise her smile. "Just for a little while." And she moves to the couch and into his extended arm.

Him: Snuggling, "I've liked you since the second time we met."

An impish smile, "Do you remember the first time we met?"

A mock rolling of eyes, "We've been going out for maybe 30 seconds and already you want to know if I remember the first time we met? Well I remember it like it was only three weeks ago."

"What makes you think we're going out?"

"Wishful thinking?"

"Tell me about the first time."

"Okay, it was right after you moved in and Talmar was taking you around to meet people. You wore a turquoise sweatshirt and blue jeans."

"I don't remember meeting you that time."

"I was playing pool."

"Oh, Talmar said everybody's name so fast and there were so many people that night..."

"Alright, so when's the first time you remember meeting me?"

"The Halloween party."

"That was the second time."

"Oh, so you mean that's when you..."

"Yeah."

"What a happy coincidence."

Pulling, leaning, kissing her softly. "Oh, so that's when you..."

"Yeah." Leaning, kissing, eyes closed.

I write like
Stephen King

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Three Tales of Mao Mui

2006-07-15T22:42:00.002-07:00

1.

Mao Mui sits on the wall, his tail trolling the yard below. Today the dogs lay limp beneath the beechnut tree, ignoring his offer. Mui twitches tail in metronome beats, ears back to find the rustle of arousal; he hears only rasping of leaves in the breeze that blows light ruffles in his coat. He releases desire for an afternoon tease, letting it flow through him and out. Not finding Wu Hsin, he happens upon it. The dogs lie still beneath their tree but master Mui waits for nothing.

Mao Mui contemplates the birds flitting between the trees and seeks their essence in the shape of a wing against the clouds. He feels a waking desire for cracking bones so he licks a paw to seek buddha in the pull of tongue on fur. Finding a nap instead, Mui lifts scorned tail and parades the wall to shadows on a treeside roof.

2.

In mid leap, Mao Mui is enlightened. The Golden Light does not burst from his crown chakra as he has heard it described, nor does it pierce him as an arrow. The Golden Light simply IS: as he IS; as the bird, who is realizing in this moment that 8.5 lbs of tomcat is about to land on him, IS. Mao Mui IS the Light, he IS the bird, and the trees, and the entire universe. He IS all things in this timeless tableau of function and form, even the dog barking her loneliness three doors down.
Still in the Golden Light, Mao Mui realizes both the futility and necessity of his existence. Live NOW the universe of Mui whispers like thunder over the horizon. There is no time or place, only NOW.
Completing his leap, in harmony with his Dharma, teeth and claws find their mark and master Mui finds Satori. CRUNCH.

3.

With claws sunk in couch cushion, his eyes all but shut, Mao Mui rhythmically kneads in meditation. The sounds of playing children and arguing birds bounce through an open window nearby, inviting surveillance from tall grasses. Purr, he drones. He breathes quietly and carefully, shunting will to semi-autonomic system; the drone fills all else. Purrrr--

The sound of a dog entering the house flicks Mui's ears but nothing else. Ki thrums centered in heart, intricate mandalas bloom and twirl in mind's eye. He remembers: rough stone walls scrape chest and back, Chen Tao silently leads, Yu Wa pants behind, their breath cloud roils light thrusting from an opening above and ahead. Mui lets his ki be drawn to his left and breathes in. He lets it be drawn to the right and breathes out. Dog's tongue lapping water is the chortle of the fountain in a cool mountain grotto left forever. Purrrr--

The stone drinks the heat from his hands, numbing them to traumas. Mao Mui allows his ki to swing slowly, the clapper in a man-sized bell. Tao waves him forward, "Xiang, let me stand on your shoulders." For five breaths master Mui tolls his ki, until the mandalas fade and only memories distract him. Sunlight rims Chen Tao as he pulls himself up and out, where he turns in bhodisatva splendor to drop one end of a rope back down to them. Mui lets his ki drift deep in his belly, in to the tan tien where it rebounds and orbits about his center: along the spine and down through the heart, down and back under, drawn to tan tien to cycle again. The crunching of kibble is the tread of soft boots in high mountain snow. Purrrr--

The pull of his ki draws memories into the growing void of Mui's center, and nothing replaces them. His kneading stops, purring slows and softens. Master of none, Mao Mui drifts in the ocean of buddha. Deeply, calmly, without thought he breathes the ocean and lets it flow through him into the void.

"Alarm! Alarm!" the dog barks as she enters the room. Master Mui allows his eyes to open but not to look. Breathing steadily, he feels right action coalesce from the void. The Warrior is not needed for there is nothing to protect. Ki flows from center to limbs and Mao Mui bounds lightly to tree shaded window sill, then out to find home and his waiting dinner.

I write like
Rudyard Kipling

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!