Mindphoon!

The Week After the Burn

“Dude, you know what was last weekend?”

“What?”

“Burning Man. I’ve always wanted to go. Weren’t we going to go this year?”

“Ummm, yeah, but we’ve said that every September since 1995 the week after they burn that thing down. We look at the pictures on the interweb and say we’re going to build an art car that spits fire, looks like the Yellow Submarine and has a real working periscope and dress like pirates. But, then, two weeks later, we forget until the week after labor day the next year.”

“Well, next year, we’re definitely going.”

“Yeah, sure we are.”

“We are!”

Pouring Out What’s Left

She died like many people die these days – a tiny shell on a hospital bed in a converted room on the first floor of the house they shared for thirty years. She wasted away slowly over two years – from that first dark spot on the x-ray, through the treatments, the difficult discussions, somber preparations and finally, the talks about who she wanted to speak at the funeral and what flowers she wanted.

He’d always loved the way her eyes sparkled with mischief. As she got older, the laugh lines only made them shine brighter. He knew the end was near when the spark faded and she stopped smiling. She tried so hard to maintain appearances – was so brave in the face of the inevitable end.

When she finally faded away, he poured what was left of himself into his work. He had a small futon put in his office and spent many nights there, because it was easier than facing an empty house and the memories. The equations, documentation and experiments kept his mind off his grief. That was all he could hope for.

(this story is a prequel to: Note quite an error)

Wine With Dinner

She was more valuable than she knew. She could reach the little blossoms on the bottom that the grown-ups would leave. She followed along behind them with her sack, picking up stray blossoms here and there, often leaving little bloody fingerprints on their perfect white fluff. The foreman wouldn’t give her gloves – they wouldn’t fit even if he did.

She was five. She was my mother.

We’d sit around after family dinners and listen to her stories about growing up poor in the South. We were always amazed how normal she seemed. Living without indoor plumbing, moving around with the crops that needed picking, it all seemed so… so… agrarian and ancient.

We didn’t realize how quickly the world had changed. For us it had always been cars, convenience and comfort. We’d never known hardship, bitter cold, hunger or an ache we knew would never go away.

We always forgot those lessons until the next family dinner, and mom had had a glass of wine or two and started telling stories.

We made sure we always had wine.

Clarence, Faster Than Sparrows

“I am not like the wind; I am the wind. I am faster than a team of horses, more fleet than a sparrow. I can go anywhere, be anything. I am flight.”

“You’re on a bicycle, Clarence, and you can’t ride that contraption in the mud or anywhere but around the track. And that hat is downright silly. What is that thing supposed to do anyway?”, Thomas wiped the grease off his hands and snickered as he looked at his younger brother on the bike held firmly in place on the rack, “In addition, you’re not even moving.”

“Oh, but I will. I will be the greatest bicycle racer the world has ever seen. Then, I’ll go over to France and do that Tour thing they started up a few years ago. And I’m not just going to race, I’m going to win.” Clarence proceeded to make wooshing noises and ducked his head to make himself more aerodynamic.

“Well, you’re going to have to, you know, ride it first.”

“I’m getting to that. Give me a push?”

Our (Ficlets) Acceptance Speech

Because ficlets is all about storytelling, I let the community come up with the bulk of this little acceptance speech, but before that, there are some people I have to thank, because without them, there would be no ficlets to write.

First, Kerry Parkins and Bert Arians for letting us do the experiment that became ficlets. Then, the awesome team that actually built the thing: Jason Garber, Ari Kushimoto, Cindy Li and Jenna Marino, Dan Bradley for being our awesome operations guy, John Scalzi for giving the site a voice and writing the ficlets blog. And lastly, my wife for putting up with me and being my greatest inspiration.

But my biggest thanks has to go to the thousands of writers who make ficlets what it is. Here’s what they have to tell you…

The Vampire Poem That Saved My Life

I sat behind her in Chemistry. I had just moved, and was none to happy to be there.

She was quiet, with large round glasses, big blue eyes. when she was thinking about something, she twirled her hair and cocked an eyebrow like Mr. Spock. I liked her immediately. After tests on Fridays, she wrote poetry about vampires, and I drew pictures of dragons. I once found one of her poems on the floor after class, and knew I had my opening. What? Of course I’d never talked to her. I was the new kid, chubby and weird, from up north with a weird accent and oh so unhappy about being there. No one talked to me.

The next day in class, I made sure I was there before her. When she came in and sat down, I smiled and said, “I found your poem the other day… I thought you’d want it back. It’s really good,” and handed it to her. She blushed (it was high-school-never-been-kissed erotic), then smiled as she looked at the floor. Her hair fell from behind her ear and covered half her face.

I drew vampires, roses and was in love.

The Beginning

Like Mr. Thoreau, I came here to get away, to live at the edge of nothing and think things through. Life had become too complicated, and I needed to remove the umbilicals and get back to living an analog life for a while.

Everyone thought I was crazy, unplugging and moving to a country where I don’t speak the language (yes, still), and I’m not taking any form of technology more advanced than my mom’s old IBM Selectric (that’s a typewriter).

Maybe I am crazy, but as I sit here in my cottage next to the window looking at the sea, I can’t help but feel I made the right decision. I’ve found an attention span I thought had died long ago. I can now pay attention to something for fifteen minutes at a time without looking for some diversion that’s come in over the tubes.

Maybe I’ll come back to the always on, never quiet life of perpetual connection; there’s a chance I won’t. Either way, this feels like a new life, led deliberately, to live a life in more than 30 second interruptions and diversions.

A Prayer for the Sleepless

For all those who stare at clocks that move too slow when the lights are off, who brave the buzz of a brain screaming for sleep – a time to file away all the random data collected over the day. For all those whose vacant sunken eyes plead for rest, a chance to take a break from the voices, the to-do’s, the haunting crows of “there’s so much more to do.” No answer comes that shuts them up.

When the dawn is the last thing you want to see, because you know it will be at least another sunset until you rest your head on the pillow again, there is nothing but more stimulants and a ridiculous drive moves you forward.

Your joints scream at you. Your eyes refuse to focus: a foggy window onto the rest of the world.

This is my prayer for you, sleepless fellow wanderers:

May your head find a welcoming pillow to rest on. May your lids be heavy and breaths deep.
May you dream of soft lights and warm breezes, and nothing else.
May you wake when you are finished sleeping, not when you are done.
Pleasant dreams, friends.

The Threads

“This is it” he said to himself as he floated above his lifeless body and his family gathered around his bed, “I’m dead. I don’t believe it. What do I do now? Where’s the light I’m supposed to head towards?”

Instead of a light, he started seeing golden threads expand out from his still chest. Each thread connected to a family member, then a thousand more threads sprung from them. He saw even more threads expand out and suddenly he was carried upwards (but not really upwards) until he saw not only himself and the threads around his bed – he saw them travel throughout the town, over the countryside and around the world. He saw each person as the thread connected with them. Each person he’d touched, or known or smiled at got a thread, and each person he’d influenced through his actions who he may never have met; they all got threads as well, until there was a golden blanket over the world, bright shining and glorious.

He looked up, said “Thank you” and continued on his journey to whatever comes next.