Most of the stuff written before now has been repurposed and refined for inclusion in the book Shambolic Wind Chimes.
Some exceptions can be found here.
He wants to write a love song
An anthem of forgiving
A manual for living with defeat
A cry above the suffering
A sacrifice recovering
But that isn’t what I want him to complete
I want to make him certain
That he doesn’t have a burden
That he doesn’t need a vision
For ninety seconds after, there was complete silence. Veronica knew this because although she was too dazed to move, she improbably found herself staring as at the second hand of an expensive silver watch.
It was one of the many unlikely occurrences that day held.
For ninety seconds, she observed the dark black line slowly make its orbit, marking off the seconds as reality adjusted. She wondered whose watch this was, and how it had ended up in her yard.
A bird chirped. Veronica looked up and realized that it was over. Nothing more was going to happen now. All that was left was to get up and try to assess the world as it was.
The realization that it was only self pity that held her down made it hard to stay on the ground, but she managed to avoid any movement for another three cycles of the second hand.
How many people lived on her street? Within a quarter mile?
If she was the only one left, then that made her what?… 1 in a hundred… 300?
Nothing would work.
It was easy to check on people. In their last moments everyone had left their doors wide open.
She hadn’t gotten the memo, another mystery. The static on radio was deafening.
The electricity was still on, but there was no internet or cell service.
How should that figure into her odds? 1 in a thousand?
There was nobody left in her neighborhood. In a few homes she found hasty notes:, to do lists of names, but no explanations.
It’s not just that they were gone. it’s that everyone else had seemed to know something was about to happen except for her and her husband. They had missed the invitation somehow.
When they had looked out the window and saw everyone’s cars with their open trunks and hoods open they had stepped onto the porch. Their neighbors were all lined up outside, waiting.
With nothing else to do, she processed her grief surprisingly quickly. The world around her was full of possibilities and the only immediate concern so far was the dogs.
The outside world was keeping it’s distance. But the animals that had been left behind had become a serious threat.
Even the cats moved in groups, looking slightly unhinged. When she saw them prowl the streets at night in ever larger packs, she imagined how betrayed they must have felt. They had given up their wild selves to build a life based on a certain kind of companionship and civilization. Then, with no explanation it was gone.
Her grief was in the past. The loneliness existed in the eternal now.
Slowly she had adapted to the mystery of her current circumstances. What had taken everyone? Should she trust the tap water? Why didn’t the car start? How would she eat when the perishable food ran out? Would they be back by then? How long would the electricity last?
She knew she had changed, but just how much was confirmed when she spotted a house-sized creature and did not scream. It was mostly robotic, and mostly spider shaped but with a humanoid torso and face. She was surprised of course, and afraid for her life, but she was not overwhelmed.
She hid, but it found her anyways.
6 months 1 day
In the end, all it wanted was some cake. She scavenged some, and they had a small birthday celebration.
6 months 3 days
He had been literally living in a cave and had no idea what had happened. But he offered this:
“Sometimes you just have to accept that the impossible happens and all the rules you knew before are gone. That happens and my ability to accept it when it does is one reason I have lasted as long as I have.
But… not yet. Let’s go visit the local power station. And if that doesn’t work well see if we can’t track down some aliens or old gods or something and wring an explanation out of them.
If you live long enough sometimes you find that you can do something, and even if not, it’s usually more interesting to try.”
6 months 1 week
She set her house on fire and watched as the irreplaceable memories held in the objects from her old life burned.
She opened up as much cat and dog food as she could find.
And they left together.
The big question, you know, “What do we really want?”.
I used to say happiness…
And then it took me some time to come around to understanding that what we really want is love.
In the sense of a universal love that gives you strength when you are dying.
You’re not afraid, because you know your presence is acknowledged and you are loved.
And that gives you the comfort to go.
I’ve sort of reached a stage more recently where I think what we all want is peace.
And that’s certainly what I want now.
I just need peace.
From: On The Media – The Body Of An American http://www.wnyc.org/story/body-american/
I imagine myself as a sort of indie folk musician, illuminating my inner world through ukulele cover songs.
But not everything can be encapsulated in that medium. So this will play over the speakers after I walk offstage.
My current goal as an author is to get my stories down to this level of efficiency :
Down by the Riverside motel,
it’s 10 below and falling
by a 99 cent store she closed her eyes
and started swaying
but it’s so hard to dance that way
when it’s cold and there’s no music
well your old hometown is so far away
but, inside your head there’s a record
that’s playing, a song called
Occasionally when Remo feels expansive he goes to the mountains and listens to the universe.
Occasionally when Remo feels hopeless he finds a tavern and poses as a bard.
He stands on the stage until he finds something to say, or is removed.
One night he told the following tale three times.
Nearby there exists a world like ours in almost every respect. It holds our towns, our lakes, and all of our joys and sorrows.
The only difference is that miles below the surface it has a cavern that our world does not.
The cavern has an underground stream and a stone cannon that were not crafted by any sentient being on that world.
At seemingly random intervals, the ground rumbles slightly, and the cannon ejects a creature.
These beings are like adult humans in almost every respect. The only differences are that they average three feet in height and their heads are shaped like mushrooms.
Their heads are shaded. One third of the creatures are red, one third green, and one third are purple. The mushrooms all have white circles.
Most of the time, the creatures come out with enough speed that they smash their skulls against the cavern wall, dying moments after they appear.
But seeming randomness when mixed with extreme time scales can produce strange results.
So sometimes the room fills with corpses, and one of the humanoids will have its emergence cushioned by the bodies, and instead die a prolonged death, crushed by the weight of those who have come before, unable to maneuver.
For some reason, this never happens to the red headed mushrooms.
But, the room also contains a stream. So occasionally the creatures will spawn in just such a way that their is a padding in one space, but the flowing water has cleared away the debris elsewhere.
Occasionally one survives.
Even more rarely, more than one survives at the same time.
And they will begin to make sense of their surroundings together, and tell stories about the Gods.
They will perform cleansing rituals on the carcasses of their fore-bearers before eating them, and drink the fresh water provided by the stream. They will fantasize about the day that a red topped one will come and lead them to a new home.
As she lies dyeing of malnutrition, lacking the leafy greens needed to fight off disease, one named Boh will use her finger to write the story of her people in the flowing water.
She will record their fears, their triumphs, and the games they played.
The echo’s of her movements absorbed by the water.
Without making any obvious changes, the first time Remo recounted this, the moral was: Each skull is imperceptibly expanding the room as it slams into at the cavern ceiling.
The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.
The second time: Although it may seem hopeless, notice that despite all odds Boh’s story made its way to us.
By the third time he recounted the tale, it was closer to dawn than midnight and the crowd was no longer feeling indulgent.
The coda was: Sometimes the universe just wants to take a long time to say “fuck you”
On the morning of his birthday, as the first light made its way through the dense foliage and into the cave camber, Narch stared at the empty wooden table and thought about cake.
Marline, one of his few female friends, had recently introduced him to the concept of birthday cake. He had made it a long time without, but now that he knew about the possibility he really wanted one.
But how? By temperament he was a recluse, an inclination only exacerbated by the fact he was a cottage sized cybernetic spider and so was usually attacked on sight.
Marline, a witch, had been an exception.
One of the peculiarities of living over five millennia is you accumulate a number of highly unlikely experiences.
But she has been dead for over a century now, and besides she had never been good at baking.
Narch felt the loneliness begin to build. He noticed that he was beginning to search his memories for clues about how he’d been brought into existence. The hope was they would help answer the question of why he should bother continuing.
Catching himself, he turned his mind to Carlile the wisdom dragon, who had showed him that sometimes his thoughts did not have his best interest in mind.
When Carlile disappeared, Narch had taken his revenge on the Kingdom of Farl. Geopolitics being what they were, this had led to a confrontation with the entire Southern Alliance, and their God, a nasty deal making wind spirit whose name escaped Narch.
Was it even worth the effort of leaving the cave?
Driving them from the coasts had sent the entire region spiraling into chaos. It hadn’t been that long ago… and without the autocratic monarchs propped up by a conniving false God, would there be enough infrastructure left to support a civilization?
Slowly the memories came back. The Zeglans had regarded him as a hero, and had even shown up at the Battle of Great Falls to support what they called his March of Freedom.
They were eager to try their had at a “new” system of economic self determination combined with a robust social safety net.
For Narch, the question was: Could such Utopian visions create the conditions for a worthwhile bakery? Would they have heard of cake? Or was the concept lost to time like dal’lesh.
Ever the optimist, after a time he gathered his massive frame, and left his abode in search of fleeting joy.
came back to nothing special
such as waiting rooms and ticket lines,
silver bullet suicides,
and messianic ocean tides,
and racial roller-coaster rides,
and other forms of boredom
advertised as poetry.
– L. Cohen