Writing

For Franz Kafka

THE OLD WOMAN SAT, SOFTLY singing, on a blue wooden chair in the vast cobbled square, rippling a carpet of birds with each cast of her seedful hand.

Tall jagged buildings loomed on all four sides — blocky and black-windowed, granite-yellow in the light of the dying sun, their shadows not quite lengthened to cover her frail red-shawled form. The air was cold her cheeks red as the birds fought for dried corn and cracker crumbs.

A tall man strode toward her — dark blue and broadshouldered, cap visor shading all but his dour mouth.

She rolled with the blow which sent her sprawling.

Fluttering clucks roared, arose, the birds swept round and round him. He raised his arms, alarmed; they were wings and he dwindled, his voice now one chirp among hundreds.

She felt herself, sighed, and satisfied, arose; then shifted her shawl and sat, singing softly, scattering seeds.

Writing

Act of Greed

“THANK YOU FOR CALLING Total Auto, may I help you?”

“Yes, my car was swept away in the recent floods, and I would like to file a claim.”

“I’m sorry sir, but flood coverage isn’t included in any of our policies.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Flood coverage isn’t included in any of our automotive insurance policies. If you look at your policy statement, you’ll see that items such as unanticipated flooding, freak hailstorms, etc., are what we call ‘Acts of God.’ We can’t insure against something like that.”

“Why not?”

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I am the greatest man in the world; indeed I am so great that I can afford great generosity: I encourage all others to adopt the delusion that they are as great as I. If they truly thought that they were themselves the greatest, they too would be as generous; and then we would all be able to humor each other, in peace, for none would feel threatened by the now-harmless delusions of everyone else.”
— Dr. Philo Drummond (Now go thou and do likewise.)

Writing

A Farewell to Mars

On and for the 54th anniversary of “Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”

AS HE DANGLED FROM THE upper corner of the window before my typewriter, inverted and scowling, I first saw the Man from Mars.

His identity was obvious: three feet tall, emerald green where the spacesuit didn’t cover him, with more-than-vestigial antennae sprouting from a large bulbous head. His expression mingled disappointment with incredulity, as though his highest hopes had just been dashed, and with calculated cruelty.

“I cannot believe you people,” he said in a flat baritone. “Just can’t believe you.”

“I’m not sure I believe in you either,” I said.

He slid down to the sill, his scowl now level with my eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Would you mind opening the window?”

“I would,” I said with ill-concealed suspicion. “How do I know you’re not, you know … part of some horrible invasion-force or other?”

“Because I’m the only Martian left – and I can’t even open the window by myself,” he said. “Besides, the latch is on your side.”

“So it is,” I said, and raised it.

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By telling tales about stardust, I hope we can remind ourselves that we live in an interconnected and beautiful world, full of rare and precious elements. It is our duty to treat it, and each other, with care and respect.”
— Astrophysicist Sanjana Curtis

Writing

Prosatio Silban and The Public Discourse

IT BEGAN, AS SO MANY good tales do, at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House. But it didn’t end there.

That bustling asylum for epicurean Pormaris’ vast and varied army of hospitality workers was especially busy for a night in the stormy Season of Huddling. The sounds of lively conversation accented by clinking glasses and tableware were audible even before Prosatio Silban opened the stucco tavern’s brass-hinged oaken door. A rush of warm, smoky air enveloped him as he entered, as did a dozen loud helloes from familiar voices.

“Good evening, everyone!” he called, shaking rainwater off his clothes and making his way to the crowded long bar at the capacious room’s rear. He took the lone vacant seat and lifted one hand toward the tavern’s namesake, who – as usual – was conducting a handful of discrete and discreet conversations. She courteously disengaged herself and sauntered over to the beefy cook, a meaningful expression on her half-wizened face.

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ENJOY YOUR TIME.”
— Preferred parting sentiment of a well-known Sonoma shopkeeper