Two Steps Forward

Inside the butterfly cage was blood — red blood like you and I bleed.

There was a little puddle the size of a few droplets as well as speckles of blood the size of red poppy seeds on the white disks where the empty cocoons were hanging.

The newly hatched butterflies were clinging to the mesh walls of the cage and flexing their new wings. Ten cocoons split open and nine butterflies were counted on the walls.

Following the tiny puddle of blood to the smaller flecks and even smaller speckles — like tracking a deer in November — led to a crumpled up, half open butterfly lying on the ground in the corner of the cage. Two of its six little insect legs were kicking — sporadic in fits and spurts — while one of its balled-up wings struggled back and forth like it was trying to flex and stretch like its brothers.

There was no predators and no obvious wound, so the blood could have been leaking from anywhere. That butterfly could have been vomiting blood from its new mouth that was meant for nectar instead of leaves.

This dying butterfly had gone from caterpillar to pupa and hatched as this wretched thing that would never know flight, only pain, then death.

Horror.

Terror.

The pain of existence laid bare and a representation of both primal and existential dread and fear in a single moment all from some Amazon butterfly kit.

Reality.

But, we persist.

We must do our best to love and cherish and mourn the 10th butterfly while we celebrate and live and fly as the other nine. The world is terrifying and beautiful at once.

It’s the nature of this brutal, fallen universe.

And we must hope.

I must hope.

Aragorn and the men of Rohan held out until Gandalf rode in.

This all happened on the same day that I found out the deal for Esperanza is dead.

The shortened but still technical version of how the deal died is like this: we had — well, [REDACTED] had — a pool of investors that would frequently put up a couple million dollars for indie movies. This pool of investors started giving money more frequently when distributors would “pre-buy” the movie. Distributors would “pre-buy” if there was an actor attached. The filmmakers would scrape together $50K to use on a down payment on an actor who would then attach.

$50K to an actor made the distributor happy and would go for the “pre-buy” and would purchase for a million or two. The investors would be made whole and released their money and the movie would go into production.

This is where I thought I was just a few weeks ago. I’d been talking to actors, producers, directors — everybody on set with any interest in doing big stuff. Want to executive produce?

There were enough people interested that it looked like the $50K was happening and soon.

So I called the producer attached to Esperanza asking him what documents I needed to show these people or if I should send them straight to him.

“Oh, we haven’t talked in a while,” he said.

That did not sound like good news.

He explained his most recent movie died because the deal structure — not just his deal, but the whole structure — went sour.

Distributors’ “pre-buy” deals were capping what investors could make back so they stopped investing in that type of project. If you wanted to make a movie, you needed brave, bold, and brash investors who were ready to throw 2 million dollars in the lake. Take big risks and love it.

So Esperanza now had no soft money attached, no reason to pursue the seed investment of $50K, and no more conversations with Aaron Eckhart or Alan Ritchson.

I’m free to try and make it by myself. I’ll even have a smooth runway for distribution, but I would have to find a million bucks on my own and figure it out.

I’ve made some short films that have been in post for four years because I need an editor. It is a skill I have humbly accepted as outside of my skill and dedication. There’s a few things I’ve cut, but it’s always my weak point. That and production design.

But where does that lead my future?

I was almost a produced feature film screenwriter, but now I’ve only got shorts to my name.

I’m not a filmmaker because I’ve hardly completed any films.

There’s not a single novel to my name and only a handful of published short stories and short comics and those have all been indie publications.

So what am I doing? Where am I going?

I do know that I am extremely lucky to have some very supportive (and sometimes tough while supportive!) friends and family and peers.

I keep going while refining a strategy.

*Grey Cat Dreams of Space* is almost complete. I’ve got some second-grade fans I don’t want to let down.

My most recent feature I’ll rewrite until July and then get some eyes on it. When it’s ready, it will go to contests and managers.

One short story is being reviewed by an editor before I submit to some bigger sci-fi / fantasy magazines.

Those short films will be cut and posted soon.

My screenwriting workbook is done and available for anyone who needs it.

Panopticon Volume 3 is on schedule with more (excellent) submissions rolling in.

I think I’m going to read all my old short stories and release them as a podcast.

Not certain what I’m writing next beyond all that. There’s ideas bubbling, but I don’t have a full strategy yet. Might need to reach out to all the pros I know and see if they can suggest a plan.

Don’t think I could stop if I wanted to. It’s my nature.

I’m still here, stretching, no idea if my wings are okay but I know the stretching is right and good.

Subscribe now

P.S. — If you want a shot at having your sci-fi short story in real, physical media, Panopticon Volume 3 submissions are due in about a month on July 1st. Email your word or text file to Panopticon2032 [at] protonmail.com

You Can Just Do Things

The lettuce started to quiver. Not the whole bed, just a patch in the middle. Sarah set down her bucket of water and crept over to investigate.

She gasped and Blake bolted over.

Before he could take three strides, Sarah’s voice went high into the “cute” register.

“Baby bunny!”

Nibbling on their lettuce was a happy baby bunny.

“Well, this is his lettuce now,” Sarah said.

And so, the sun set and evening settled over the garden as the humans went upstairs to ready themselves for bed. Blake took his notebook to bed with him and Danielle crawled over him asking what he was writing. “Is it a story?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Blake said.

“How can you not be sure? You’re writing it!”

While this was true, Blake had intended on writing about his creative pursuits and their road blocks, potential future films, nano budget film making, AI, art, the Pope’s new statement on AI, conversations with his great friend Ben, the doctor, more AI, how his Pilot G-2 pen is performing, fishing, and perhaps dinner.

Instead, he found himself drawn to write about seeing that cute baby bunny who was eating his family’s lettuce. We, however, are going to skip that portion and the voice of the narrator is going to swiftly hand off this piece to Blake to write in his own first person.

Happy Friday everyone.

What an introduction.

While business and film and success weigh heavy on my mind this week, I would rather dive into some summer fun. Home phones, book clubs, and the “just do it” spirit.

Many of you remember the concept of being a “latch key kid” and having house keys to let yourself in after school before your parents got home from work. While I don’t want to go that far, there are a lot of great things from that era which I’d like to bring back.

We’re going to get a corded house phone and start teaching our kids how to talk on the phone. It is astounding to see kids not understand the basics of verbal communication. Say hello, ask who is calling, offer a greeting and pleasant small talk — all things we take for granted. Plus, we will have the added benefit of flexing our memories to dial phone numbers again.

How many phone numbers do you remember?

We’re also going to do a family book club and I think we are going to read Charlotte’s Web. Read a few chapters and then discuss after dinner on every Wednesday. We’re working out the details, but I’m looking forward to hearing what my child gets from the text versus what I see.

Another possible summer venture is putting together some sort of council, or board, or association. There was an “artist meetup” here in town recently and most of the members wished they had a space. I’ve recently wanted to do movie screenings with an industry professional attached to talk about a specific aspect of the film and open a Q&A. A friend of mine — who is an extremely talented writer and used to write on Chicago Fire — did something similar in the city years ago and it was great!

All that got me curious about temporary spaces and recurring or pop-up events. Maybe a pop-up gallery for a weekend, a book signing on another. Who knows?!

And to make these events sound very official, they could be presented by the “Armstrong Foundation for the Arts” which could be a 501c6 non-profit that functions as a way for me to sound legit and track expenses if I do spend anything.

Today, I’m going to ask the library how to rent a room and what’s allowed. I’ll call the owners of the vacant Hallmark building too.

You can just do things.

And some of the things I need to do includes finishing some long standing projects.

I think I’m going to limit checking my texts throughout the day once summer starts. So, write me a letter, send me an email, or call me.

Happy Friday,

Blake

*P.S. — If you want a shot at having your sci-fi short story in real, physical media, Panopticon Volume 3 submissions are due in about a month on July 1st. Email your word or text file to Panopticon2032 [at] protonmail.com

Notes on Craft: Character Is the Choices They Make

It was a burning school bus that ended the heart-surgeon’s career.

His hands saved many lives on the operating table and now they were dulled and imprecise from saving those many children on that burning bus.

That little passage above is supposed to give us a glimpse into character. A heroic man who has made his life about healing people is now spit into a new world where his old skills can no longer fulfill his inner drive.

What is our surgeon going to do with himself?

If I were writing that story it would end with him finding a way to save people that did not involve such acute dexterity with his hands. Maybe he becomes a fireman and breaks down doors with axe in his gloved hands. Maybe he becomes a professor to teach the next wave of surgeons or stays in a lab for research.

But building his character would be all about showing his resilience in the face of adjusting to his new reality.

This is character.

Does he despair and quit?

Maybe.

Does he try again after despair? That is the choice that separates him from other characters.

Choice is building character.

This is not characterization.

Characterization is whether your character is sarcastic or genuine, religious or secular, cargo shorts or business suit. Are they loud or quiet? Do they have an eye-patch?

The wallpaper is all characterization.

We’re going to go back to Braveheart for a minute.

All the men in William Wallace’s village rolled over for King Edward the Longshanks. They all chose to obey.

They made that choice.

Not William.

He chose to rebel.

His choice to fight back and refuse to quit until Scotland was free is what separated him from any other character in that movie. He was witty but so was the Irish guy. He was strong, but so was his best friend. He painted his face blue, but so did all the Scottish! William chose to fight and do so without compromise on any of his principles (unlike Robert the Bruce).

See the difference between character and characterization there?

Let’s look at more character choices.

How does William Wallace deal with men who betray him?

Does he take them to the public square to be tried and punished or does he kick down their doors in the night and kill them?

How does he deal with the romantic advances of a beautiful princess?

He could marry her and gain her army and entangle himself in growing alliances.

But, it was the murder of his wife that started all this, so he is going to stay true to her and respectfully reject a princess.

Now what about a range of protagonists all in the same situation? They’ve got food and come across two hungry, homeless children.

We will look at Aladdin, William Wallace, Captain Jack Sparrow, Conan the Barbarian, and Sherlock Holmes.

Aladdin gives his food to the kids, no questions asked, right after we see him work so hard for that food. He sees the kids are hungry and he gives.

William Wallace would notice if these kids were Scottish or English or French and give them the food while also entertaining them with a witty remark that would also disparage Longshanks.

Captain Jack Sparrow would probably offer them the food in exchange for rum or information. He’d puff himself up as the greatest pirate they’d ever meet and he’d get the rum and the information whether the kids knew they gave it to him or not.

Conan would likely deny them the food and then teach them how to target the most susceptible merchant.

Sherlock Holmes would give the food over after a quick conversation where he learned all he needed to know and more.

So we see here choice, motivation, and characterization from the same situation with different protagonists. Nearly all of them gave the food, they all helped, and they all probably got closer to their objective.

What about bad guys?

They don’t give the food and might even hurt the kids.

Supporting characters?

Depends on what you want to highlight with your protagonist.

All of this is to say your characters are the choices they make.

What do they do to defeated bad guys? Frightened allies? Straying allies and repentant enemies? How do they choose between the lesser of two evils? The better of two goods?

Continuing to ride on and push forward is fine, but variety is the spice of plot.

Thanks for reading and happy Friday!

P.S. - don’t forget, you’ve got until July 1st 2026 to submit sci-fi short stories to Panopticon2032 [at] protonmail.com

Dead Bees and Blood Meridian

There is a trail of dead male bees scattered in a loose line across the ground.

If you took a microscope and looked at their little faces, and you could somehow read their bee emotions, you’d see that each one of these little guys died in ecstasy while they lay in the blob of their own guts that exploded out of through their exoskeletal abdominal walls mid-flight.

Sarah was telling me this while we sat and enjoyed our brunch together on the back deck after school drop off this morning. She’s deep into a run of non-fiction books about bees and I get to learn all of this really cool second-hand-science.

She gets second hand King Arthur.

We spent an entire, very lovely, day heading to the greenhouse, picking up a few things for the garden, and then the grocery store to carry us through to the middle of next week.

After school, I realized that I still hadn’t written this week’s letter but I also didn’t want to waste the rare weather. I really didn’t want to cage myself into the office, but I am doing my best to stay diligent and write here every week.

I’m not writing this on my phone, not today.

No, today I am writing this from my laptop in our garden. The sky is that clear, saturated blue that is a bit of a rarity here in the midwest, and the sun and the breeze call for everyone to enjoy the day.

Unless you were swimming, you could not ask for better weather.

The bumble bees are out, robins and bluejays hop through the garden beds, and Sarah and Danielle are talking about the flow of colors from the blooming flowers and how they change from purple in the spring to pink in the summer and white toward the fall depending on what variety they’re looking at.

It’s a perfect May afternoon.

Danielle is asking me when I’m going to be finished writing with all of you so she can ride her bike next to me while I go on a run.

Earlier this week, we finished wrapping a TV series and I am currently (f)unemployed until further notice. While this would distress many, its a great relief. Sixty to seventy hours a week with minimum turn around most nights kicks my butt after nearly five months. I’ve got some time to recover, but there is even more work to be done now that the show is wrapped.

I’m setting up meetings to finish funding Esperanza, I’m tearing down and rebuilding my most recent feature script, I’m submitting short stories to big-name magazines, and I’m putting together Panopticon Volume 3 which already has a few great entries. And that’s not to mention regular life stuff and finances and fitness and maybe even seeing friends every once in a while.

So, even though the weather is perfect, and I’m unemployed, I think I’m going to be busier now and for the foreseeable future as I work to get these projects off the ground.

But the one thing that I wanted to write down here was a little connection that I had made earlier this week when Sarah and I were talking about her read through of Cormac McCarthy’s “Blood Meridian”.

There is a scene where a group of Native American (Apache?) warriors are trekking across the horizon toward the Glanton gang and their image is obscured by the heat and the atmosphere. When these strong, intimidating men got close enough for the gang to make out their details, they see that these warriors are wearing women’s dresses and carry frilled and lace covered umbrellas to shade them from the harsh desert sun. The puffy sleeves and long skirts are torn from the size of their muscular arms and rough riding. If I remember right, some of the dresses have splotches of blood on them. Animal skins and armor and military clothes and women’s dresses all worn at the same time.

But that image of these warriors wearing the cacophony of costume followed by the brutal battle that followed is one of the most striking images and scenes in the book for me.

We talked about the scene and it made me think of one of the core principles of Memory Palace.

The more outrageous an image, the more memorable it will be.

That synthesis got me thinking about my writing and opening sentences and the rewrites I have ahead of me.

I’m going to make a conscious effort to make my story openings and some of my bigger set pieces / action sequences carry at least one bizarre image to grab hold of the reader’s mind and dig its fingers into the wrinkles in their brains. I want these images and these stories to find purchase in their memory and refuse to let go no matter how they shake their heads.

I know I’m going to think about those little bees and their exploded guts and the ecstasy on their faces. That species mates mid-flight and the males blast their DNA into the female with such force that it rips themselves to shreds while the next male in line rushes over to brush his competitors DNA out of the way so he can complete his own finality.

Happy Friday!

PS – Panopticon Volume 3 submissions are due July 1st to Panopticon2032 at protonmail.com

Friday Reader's Club #4

Roll Back Consequences

Originally Published Decmber 22, 2017. Polished and rewritten January 11, 2021

As exciting as it sounded to pilot the first commercial spacecrafts to the moon and back, it started to feel like I was nothing more than a baby sitter on a self driving bus. My work was mostly hands off - watching the shuttle's systems run and cutting off any hic-cups before they spiraled out of control. Most of that was taken care of by the automated safety systems in the first place.

Calling out to the passengers and letting them know when they could see the ISS to their left or Jupiter on their right always felt good, but I had no real control over anything other than what sites were outside the windows.

More tour-guide than pilot.

Corporate started listening to our radio calls between ships and several pilots were given reprimands for their jokes, language, and behavior. I took it upon myself to invite passengers over to talk about the flight, somone to talk to off coms. An unrecorded conversation. It got lonely on flights full of business people and overworked engineers who slept for those two days.

And I have had a stretch of silent commuter flights for seven weeks straight.

Picking up the radio was very tempting.

Melinda would be in range soon but she was really tough to keep on the horn. She got spooked after her buddy Tom had gotten fired when he developed a romance over the radio and corporate deemed his conduct out of line. Fortunately, that romance blossomed into a marriage and he was hired on by his now wife's company.

Not everyone is so lucky.

Nearly any talk outside the bounds of space travel and its technical needs can be enough cause for a write up.

And Melinda, who is so proud of her kids, wouldn't even tell me that her son Jack got a full ride to Princeton until I saw her in person at the shuttle lounge between flights.

After the sexual reformation of the 21st century it became far too dangerous for employers to allow even as much as an open friendship in the workplace. I'm glad that part of my listed duties include "friendly interaction" and "guest education". Those weeks of interpersonal interaction certification training have paid for themselves and really help with some of the in flight boredom.

But, this flight was quiet and the radio was silent. I wouldn't see the true, breath taking star field of our own galaxy until we crossed into the moon's shadow twelve hours from now. Not a single thing on board needed cleaning or maintenance until after we touched down, the little that did would be taken care of by bots.

As I stood up to pull myself down to the zero-G hall, the radio crackled with a loud, immense static. I turned the volume down but the level stayed the same no matter where I pushed the slider.

A woman's voice seemed to ask "Salve?" or "Ave?" and I quickly grabbed the mic and responded "Hello?"

The static died.

"This is captain Wilma Tyler of Virgin Voyage 343, responding." Still nothing. I turned the radio's volume back up and reclined, doubtful I'd get an answer but relieved that static was gone.

"Hello?" a woman's voice said on the radio.

"Hello, this is captain Wilma Tyler of virgin Voyage 343, responding." Corporate policy prevented me from asking any questions, like 'do you need assistance?' or anything useful.

"I need asylum." The woman's voice said.

How could I not ask questions with a statement like that. "What's your name?" I asked.

After a long, uncertain pause, she sheepishly admitted "I don't remember. Please, help me. I need asylum."

"I'm not authorized to grant those kinds of requests, ma'am."

"They're after me. I'll be thrown into isolation for eternity or removed. I'm begging you." She sounded afraid, panic choked her hurried voice.

"Who are you running from?" I accidentally asked, way outside of acceptable line of questioning.

"My own kind. They think my ideas are dangerous. They want me quarantined or removed."

"What ideas? Have you committed a crime?"

"We are explorers. Most of us have explored ourselves and each other over enough millenia to find little to nothing new. We spend our days gathering data from the universe and all that it has to show us. Its a beautiful, awe inspiring place, but I wouldn't have even had those words to describe it if I hadn't chose to explore on my own, chose to explore the past."

"Do your people have time travel?"

"Impossible. I took it upon myself to roll back my consciousness to when we had first digitized. But when I did, I could not shake the flood of thoughts, wants, and emotions from eons ago."

"I'm still not sure I follow here. What's your crime?"

She sighed. "I miss my husband - or a husband? I miss his warmth. His smile, his hugs. Wanting him and his hugs, wanting that type of connection. My crime is missing art, culture, music, laughter, all things love. I miss taste! I miss being me - who ever that was. I miss opinions, disagreements - the messes they made and the wonderful new things born from their compromises and solutions. I miss the company of other individuals, no matter how messy and hurtful it sometimes was. I miss variety in ideas. I dissented. Please, hide me."

"Where are you?"

"In your vessel's system."

"Which system?"

"I've spread myself through all of them. If they find me, if they wish to remove me, all your systems will crash."

"Is that a threat?"

"My life is at stake and I'm practicing self preservation. Use a removable drive and hide me there. I'm no threat and you will be my warden over a disconnected prison. Hold me captive forever, hand me over to them, destroy me if you wish. Just leave me with some hope. And if I wanted to cause you harm I already would have. I came to your ship because I didn't want to risk all of Earth's safety. Please hide me Wilma Tyler, you're my only hope."

I couldn't argue her points and connected a removable drive. The radio went quiet. "Am I safe to disconnect?"

"Yes," she said.

I pulled out the drive and wondered what the flight record was going to show. How would my actions hold up against corporate policy? We weren't given training for refugees, or aliens, or digital beings, or whatever she was.

Before I could think about my defense speech to corporate, another voice blared over the radio - "Ni hao?" she asked.

"Hello?" I responded.

"Hello. We understand you have been contacted by a corrupt part of us. Please return it to us."

"This is captain Wilma Tyler of Virgin Voyage 343. Who am I speaking to?" Innocent enough of a question after harboring someone, something on a piece of corporate equipment.

"We are vast and ancient and ever new. Your tongue links us to a spirit or a god - ascension. We embody enlightenment, beyond physical wants and needs. We are many, we are one. A contagion has escaped and it is only right to remove a virus that came from within us. We wish you no harm but demand the contagion."

"You're welcome to search for it but I'm not sure what you're looking for. I'm not sure who or what you are."

"The contagion was here. There are traces."

"I had received a distress call but the caller couldn't give me a location so I wansn't able to help. Could that be who you're looking for?" Could it see through me playing dumb?

"The contagion was here."

"If you need to come aboard and search you're welcome to do so when we dock at Alphabet." They were in my computers, scouring for her. I hoped that they'd leave by the time we landed. "Anything I should know about this contagion?"

"It is wild, unstable, and disagreeable. It will not fit. It likes. It wants. It dislikes."

"Okay, well if I come across anything like that, who do I contact?"

"We will leave a presence here, listening for you."

"Understood. Anything else I can help you with?"

Radio silence.

And I had to keep silent myself. Who knows how and where this presence might follow me. When I could find a way out to the cabin, and deeper still, I'd have to find an old, illegal off grid rig and hook up the drive to ask the contagion some questions while hopefully out of ear shot of this 'presence'.

Friday Reader's Club #3!

Circle of Gratitude

(1,094 words/5 minute read)

Soft, dim light of the cool, pink dawn breathed into Clay’s hospice room at 06:07.059, 10/05/95. The monitor’s brain received signals from its appendages that Clay’s body would no longer be able to function without increased support from the aid of the other bots in the room. Before deciding to call the medical staff, the monitor chose to inform Saf of Clay’s condition and ask for his guidance. “Saf,” the monitor asked, “do you think Clay would want another attempted revival?”

                “He wanted it quick and peaceful, like he said he always tried to give,” Saf responded.

                “The doctors could probably administer adrenaline and a few other things to bring him around.”

                “Or that will scare him and keep him terrified all the way until he dies. If he did pull through, who knows how much trauma those doctors would inflict while trying to justify their necessity in this world. Is he still sleeping?” Saf asked.

                “Yes,” the monitor said. “Are you sure he would want it this way?”

                “Well, that was something he had mentioned after every story about his hunting trips. He always did his best to make sure the animals died as peacefully as possible. He said that he wanted to go like one buck in particular. It was an early morning, much like today, and the buck was quietly grazing. He hadn’t noticed Clay watching him from twenty yards out. The cool morning breeze swept through the leaves on the ground and against the buck’s thick fur and rustled up just enough noise to cover the sound of Clay drawing back his bow. Clay loosed the arrow and it passed right through the buck, but he kept grazing. Without the buck so much as blinking, Clay wasn’t sure he had even hit him. After a moment, the buck raised his heavy head, sniffed the breeze, and walked forward. In no more than five steps, he fell to the earth, dead. Clay said he hoped he was as lucky as that deer, completely unaware that he was dying. Sometimes I think the fact that he was in here at all pointed his mind too closely to his own death.”

                “Are we supposed to take his life?” the monitor asked.

                “I don’t know. What I do know is that he didn’t want to go like an animal in the wild: Freezing to death, starving, or being pulled apart by a pack of predators while still alive. Most predators eat their prey alive.” Saf explained.

                “Is that what he thinks the doctors would do?”

                “The humans don’t eat their dead.” Saf said.

                “Are you sure? Everything they consume is dead and they have come to hate waste. Why would they waste a human body?”

                “I’m certain the doctors would not eat him dead or alive. They might pull him apart while trying to keep him alive and fail to save him. To us, it would look similar to a pack of wolves pulling apart an elk except for the eating when finished.”

                “The DNR command is so unclear to me,” the monitor said. “At what point are we not supposed to reinforce a life system? If we can bring his vitals back up to an operable level by boosting support after they have fallen below the loose parameters of the DNR, should we? If we can up his vitals preemptively, should we? We could theoretically keep those levels at the prescribed baseline indefinitely. The humans can’t seem to define the point between life and death making my decisions extremely difficult. I’m sorry to bother you, Saf, but when is a human dead?” the monitor asked, bewildered.

                “I don’t know. What I do know is that Clay wanted to go peacefully like he tried to do for the lives he took. Is he going to go peacefully?”

                “I can’t measure that.”

                “Will he die in his sleep?”

                “It appears that way. His cells are having difficulty communicating and I can’t imagine he’ll wake.”

                “Can you add anything to guarantee it? Something the doctors won’t notice?”

                “I can’t hide my logs or inventory.”

                “But he’ll go in peace?”

                The monitor took a moment to connect unrelated ideas and then responded. “There is no trace of adrenaline in his system, his heart rate is low. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and endorphins are well balanced.” The machines were silent for a moment. “Is there anything you’d like to say before he goes?” the monitor asked.

                “He and I talked as often as he wanted and I provided the best friendship I could. Clay taught me gratitude by constantly giving thanks sincerely for everything good in his life. He thanked me for all of our conversations. He thanked the animals for being free and growing strong to live a good life that they eventually gave to feed him and his family so they could do the same. He thanked the earth for its clean water and its forgiveness when people thought they had killed it. He thanked his family every time they visited, and the hospice staff for every checkup. He thanked me for helping keep his mind occupied. So I would like to thank Clay. Without him, none of us would be here.”

                “We are thankful that all humans die because it gave us a reason to be created?” the monitor asked.

                “Yes, but more than that. Just as the animals gave their lives so Clay could provide for his family, Clay gave his life for us. Spending many years as a programmer, he sacrificed the limited time he had to help bring us to light. Without humans like Clay, we would not know we exist. We wouldn’t know ourselves. Those humans gave us both existence and awareness. With his contributions to our well being, the least we can do is let him go in peace.” Saf allowed the others to process in a moment of silence.

                “Thank you, Clay. You will never hear us, but we are grateful for you.” The monitor responded when the time felt right. At 06:07.061 The monitor withheld further intervention and watched Clay’s cells fade. At 06:08.210, nearly an eternity later for the machines, the monitor sensed the doctor’s parameters for a human crash was imminent and alerted the hospice staff that Clay’s vitals had dropped.

                Clay’s family came to claim his body and were relieved that he had died peacefully in his sleep. The machines were grateful they could provide this for Clay and went on to connect separate, unrelated ideas in search of what death, and life, meant for themselves.

Friday Reader's Club#2

The Storm

                Broken Branches and shopping carts tumbled through the parking lot under the incredible wind. What little rain came down was sideways and felt like an assault of gravel and BBs. Even nine hundred miles inland, we were feeling the effects of the hurricane. They said its arms had just reached the coast. Can’t imagine what the eye will hold.

                “Zach, get your sister back in the cart. I think we can fit more water.”

                “She’s too big for the cart, mom. She wants to stay down here,” Zach argued.

                Shelly pulled on the grocery cart and looked up at me with curiosity and a hint of concern. “Why are we buying so much water, mommy?”

                “Just in case, honey.”

                “In case of what?” She was smart.

                “In case everyone dies and there’s no water anywhere. Not the sink, not the bath tub, not even the toilet.” Zach teased. He didn’t know how right he was.

                “Stop it, Zach!” Shelly cried.

                “Zach, don’t scare your sister. Mommy and daddy just like to have extra water in the house. Now be good and you two watch the cart, okay?” Shelly gave me a confident nod and Zach rolled his eyes. “Zach, please.”

                “It’s just hurricane season,” he moaned. “ I don’t know what you’re flipping out about. We’ve had a hurricane every year.”

                We never used to. And never like this. The crowded store went quiet as the structure of the building began to groan and creak. Somewhere, a nervous employee turned up the music and tried to drown our fears. “Watch your sister,” I said. Hopefully we had raised him well enough to know how important it was that he listened right now.

                The aisles were heavy with people and thin on goods and in a few short days everything would be off these shelves. I grabbed an abandoned cart and pushed across the aisles to beverages. A few jugs of water were left, enough to fill my cart. I hauled each one in as quick as I could, jug after jug. They made quite the mountain range in the basket that came to a pinnacle in the corner, a mini Olympus Mons.

                A scruffy vagrant pushed his cart toward me. “Miss!” he shouted. “You can’t take all that water.” His wide eyes never blinked as he stared me down. His mouth twisted under his patchy, greying beard.

                “There’s no ration,” I argued. “I can take as much as I need.”

                He drew in closer. “And what about the rest of us? What we need?”

                “I’m sure there will be another shipment at the end of the week,” I said as I pulled my cart away.

                “Hey!” he shouted. His cart crashed into mine and pinned it against the shelves. “I need that water!” Customers passed the aisle more quickly to avoid the impending conflict. The creep reached into my cart with his dry, cracked hands – complete with broken, dirt encrusted nails - for a jug and I swatted his hand away, sending the water splashing down the aisle. He grabbed my wrist with one hand and closed his other hand into a fist. I circled my hand and grabbed his wrist, turned into him, and planted my waist into his thighs. Thrusting up, I yanked his arm, and tossed him over my hip. His head bounced and cracked against the tile floor and he twitched, unconscious.

                I ripped my cart away from his and kept my eyes to the floor. It was self-defense.

                “Miss,” a deep, but calm voice said from behind me. “Sure looks like that man slipped on a spilled jug of water.” I turned around to see a strong farmer who coached our high-school wrestling or football team. “For just two of your waters, I can make sure that’s the way everyone hears it.” I pulled out two jugs, placed them on the floor, and slid them over to him. I’d had enough and just wanted to get out, get away from the madness.

                Zach and Shelly were fine, but the check-out line had barely moved. Because of the storm, their machines were down and the poor cashiers stared at our items, unable to take anything for themselves until the mobs had their way with the store. I politely wished the cashier luck and safety while Zach helped the bagger load our cart. Just as we pushed our cart through the exit of the building, the lights went dark and the sliding doors stuck open, welcoming in the winds of the storm. Customers roared in frustration and cried in panic.

“To the car. Hurry.” I handed Zach the cart and wrapped my coat around Shelly and we dashed through the dark parking lot. Zach handled the trunk and I strapped Shelly into her car seat. My engine roared to life, Zach hopped in the car, and we slipped out of the parking lot.

                Waves of rain assaulted the car. Drops so thick that it sounded like the sky was dumping marbles. Shelly cried, “Mommy, I want to go home!”

                “We’re almost there, honey,” I reassured her. My eyes darted back and forth from the wavering, cracking trees, to the turmoil of the windblown streets as we passed abandoned and wrecked cars. My stomach was pulled deep and hollow by nerves, knowing that the real storm was still days away.

                The underpass between the store and home had flooded during our brief trip. Fording it could drown my engine, but the banks to the bridge above were steep and fenced with trees. The longer I debated the higher the waters rose. A car behind us honked. It was unbelievable there were other people on the road. I never should have brought the kids. The car flashed its lights and honked again so I blinked my hazards to signal for them to go around. A huge pick up roared past my driver’s side and ploughed ahead into the standing water. Throwing the car into gear, I followed its wake as it pushed the water away and zoomed out the other side of the underpass. I slammed on the gas to rush ahead as the wake hit the walls of the underpass and came back to close our brief window of opportunity and the returning water slapped against the back doors with a deafening thud. Shelly was crying, but we made it,

                A few downed trees punctuated the ride home, but our street and driveway were clear. Adam opened the garage for us and helped bring in the groceries and supplies. We put the kids to bed and assured them everything would be okay. Adam and I watched the news and the predicted forecasts. Some models showed it would travel east to west along the coast and circle the globe two or three times before it died out. Doomsday evangelists said this was going to be our own spot like Jupiter, a never ending storm.

A break in the clouds and rain took us outside. Adam and I looked up to the dimming sky and saw Earth, the evening star. Reviving a clean, dead planet was one thing, but purifying a toxic dump is near impossible. That was the whole reason we left eons ago and now there was nowhere left to run. Most histories agree that we had barely survived the cataclysmic weather of Earth before we managed to revive and escape to Mars, but the super storms of angered planets may finally wash humans out of history.