life as short stories
Reminiscent of Earth as a pale blue dot, our lives—large as they are to us—are short stories in the collection of life.
The Pale Blue collection consists of fables, parables, tales and verse. They are independent but share a theme reminiscent of Carl Sagan’s image of Earth as a pale blue dot. Our lives, large as they are to us, are short stories in the collection of life. Excerpts here are from the parables section.
Sullen Earth
Flexibility is stronger than standing firm against the wind.
Late at night I write, while everyone else is sleeping. Hardly for fame or fortune, but for ordinary urchins, who accept the joke life plays upon them. That only the certain can be mistaken. Only the rigid, broken.
That cast in a glass vase, this Earth is hefty and firm and fragile for it. But you can’t see a solution if you look right through it, so sway. That’s the seed message of Earth Day, sandwiched between pandemics.
When we sway, as wildflowers to wind-song, the proud think we speak with dæmons. They see the gestures. But they refuse to hear how urchins, who don’t have answers, are no less not mistaken.
And the rigid will be broken.
Unfuddled
Nobody knows everything.
Ichabod’s eyebrows narrowed to a squinting grimace, mouth pulled to a rictus more for doubt than mirth. He rubbed his stubbled chin and read the sign out loud. Closed Until Yesterday. Then repeated, declaring each word a sentence. Closed. Until. Yesterday.
Ichabod unfurled a long-fingered palm under the word Yesterday and shrugged. What do you make of this? he said to nobody in particular. Nobody was there to hear, which is fair for no one listens well.
When nobody answered, Ichabod began blinking. Rapidly. He wandered a distance from the door, hand again on chin, lips pursed white, then returned to the sign, stared at the preposition, and tilted his head to the right. Are you sure? he whispered.
A moment later his head jerked back as if he’d stepped on a cliché-sharp tack. Ichabod pulled himself to full height. He gathered his furled blue umbrella, and the parcel wrapped in kraft paper, tucking the latter under an arm, almost to the pit.
Then I shall have to return, he intoned with emphasis on Shall, and lifted the umbrella tip to Yesterday thrusting an accusatory jab that left little doubt he knew how. I simply won’t be here Tomorrow.
Para Prose
Some novelty can be expected; some expectations, novel.
I wrote a story about an amnesiac, but forget where I put it. It’s a short story: Come Home. Says it all, although I’m still working on the title.
It’s a sequel I wrote on recycled paper. First one was: Recursive Function. It went on and on. I wrote it in long-hand. Well, at first left-hand, but that didn’t seem right.
It’s on lined paper. For a new angle, I gave it a turn. Now all the letters line up, like they’re in jail. There’s an edition with a semicolon in the tech section.
Both are biographies for the anonymous reader. I left the dedication page blank. It’s lined, so fill in your own spaces. Much like life.
My next story is Anything’s Possible, a love story about global warming. The uncommonly hot as a cure for the common cold; best to pick battles still smaller than you are.
