I know where it is. I tried to put it out of sight. The bag is in the other room in a plastic drawer with the coffee beans.
I turn back to the computer. I’ve got to get this done today. There is so much more to do.
They are salty and crispy. I can feel them on my tongue. The crunch sends jolts of electricity to my brain.
Lay’s Classic.
The bald-headed muscular man sat in the front of the train. He wore the insignia, LISR, proudly on his uniform. In a few more years he could retire. He couldn’t wait. He’d be at the beach every day during the summer and then he’d spend the winter golfing at his Florida mansion.
But first he had to get the signals working and the engine malfunction fixed. He picked up the phone in the cab, “We’ve spent millions of dollars every year and those signals still malfunction. What the hell is wrong now?”
At the other end of the line a guy with slicked back hair and a pot-belly looked at the tracks with despair. “Come on you guys, try it again,” he said. Two elderly gentleman raised two flags each and started waving them back and forth. Several trains stood in sight with their drivers cursing the delay. They couldn’t figure out what the flag men were doing. They looked like sick birds flapping their wings aimlessly in the air. Mr. Pot-Belly turned to the phone, “Sorry, the signals are still down. I’m working on them.”
The bald man cursed and hung up the phone. “Alright, I am going to fix the engines myself. He stalked out of the cab and pulled off the sheet metal panel from the side of the engine. He looked inside and cursed. “Damn you, get back to work, now!”
Rows upon rows of shiny black and white striped snails sat resting. They looked at the bald man with hatred. “Let that bastard come down here and move this thing. That’s what I say,” the largest snail said in a gravelly Long Island accent.
This post is dedicated to the long-suffering commuters who ride the Long Island Snail (oops) Rail Road.
The tall one spoke first. “They don’t know we are here.” “Good, we need to gather data before we act,” the shorter one said. The tall one peered through the window. He saw moving shapes on the wall. “My endoskeleton is detecting vibrations,” the tall one said. “and my mental state is unusual.” “I am experiencing a similar state,” the short one said. “What is this phenomenon?”
“It has regular patterns. I detect mathematical structure within it,” the tall one said. “Why does it exist?” the shorter one said. “It sounds purposeful, as if it was created deliberately. Do you think the fleshy ones are responsible?” “I don’t see how they could produce these complex series of waveforms. I suspect it is another source,” the tall one said. “Perhaps this is used as an energy source although that seems impractical.”
“It is an anomaly that needs to be investigated further,” the short one said. “I agree. the action is postponed indefinitely,” the tall one said.
The top secret space plane fired jets to adjust its altitude. It would begin its descent in five minutes. No one could see the yellowish smear under the wing. The technicians watching images from the cameras trained on the heat-resistant tiles didn’t see anything abnormal.
The landing was routine and the spacecraft coasted to a stop. Suited workers hopped out of vehicles and approached the ship. The yellow smear coalesced into a thread like tube. It dropped to the surface of the runway. It made a tiny rustling sound as it moved.
The maintenance crew surrounded the aircraft. The tiny yellow worm creature crawled between the legs of a burly worker. It hopped onto the muddy boot and it began to climb. When it reached the top of the sock it dove into the space between the sock and skin. After it had wriggled down and settled on the foot it opened its buccal cavity and grabbed a fold of pink skin. The yellow worm began to gnaw its way in.
“Hungry,” it thought to itself.
She’s tall and thin and all in black. Her pony tail bobs in time with the click of her heels on the pavement. Two men in tight black clothing flank her. Peals of laughter and excited oohs and aahs trail their confident strides into the park. They know what they want and they are determined to get it.
Will the rain never stop?
I decide to go in the cave. I know it will be dark. Other animals might be inside. The muscles in my arm are tight as I hold my hand-ax straight up. I am ready.
Sheets of rain pattered against the sidewalk. He paused on the step and grinned showing the gap between his front teeth. With a flourish he placed the upside down cardboard box on his head.
A slow clap began for Mr. Cardboard Box as he walked. Just imagine the energy saved and the carbon emissions not produced. What a man. What will he think of next?
It’s only a matter of time …
In my novel Pomroy’s World, Majorana particles play a major role.
None of my clothes fit. I am that conundrum of nature that challenges any shirt or pair of trousers. Too tight here or too loose there, the cloth never follows the line. Forever doomed to bagginess, lumpiness and a disheveled appearance. I quite like it.
I use the metal spatula to lift up a tiny piece of warm ham quiche. Next I scoop out some syrupy fruit and place it in a cut glass goblet. I place a cold croissant on my plate and flank it with two pats of butter. I am almost done. I pour a steaming arc of dark coffee into my cup and take a sip. My brain is jolted into the present and I sit down to enjoy my breakfast.
