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THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...
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THOSE WHO HEAR

  Collected Papers of Rev. Andrew Kaczmarek (1857–1903) Editor’s Preface (1903) The following documents were recovered from the personal effects of Rev. Andrew Kaczmarek, formerly of St. Rita of Cascia Church. They were found in a trunk beneath the floorboards of a rented room in Stewartstown, Pennsylvania, following the Reverend’s unexplained disappearance in October of 1857. The materials consist of letters, journal entries, copied fragments, and several loose pages of uncertain origin. Some show signs of water damage inconsistent with their place of storage. Several letters addressed to a Dr. Elias Whitcomb were found among the Reverend’s papers. Though properly dated and prepared for post, none bear evidence of having been mailed. No body was recovered. No formal inquiry was pursued. The Reverend’s last known movements placed him in the Allegheny foothills, traveling alone. Letter I June 3rd, 1857 My Dear Dr. Whitcomb, You once asked whether I had encountered, in...

THE BEST LAID PLANS OF THEOBALD STERLING MANN part 2

As promised! PART 2! If you missed Part 1, you can read it HERE . Once back in his own neighborhood, Sterling kept a vigilant eye out for neighbors, the postman, and any assorted passersby. He could not be seen. He slipped along the side of the house and into the backyard just after noon. It was sunny but not too warm. The bathroom window was still open...just enough. Perfect. He picked up a twig from the slightly unkempt yard, just to be safe, then climbed the maple and made his way quietly onto the garage roof. All he had to do now was wait. Inside, Betty's television blared. She was watching a game show from the sound of it. She was a creature of habit, just as he was. As soon as he could no longer hear the television, he knew it would soon be time. Betty had been watching The Price Is Right . Even though she didn't like the new host, she still enjoyed watching contestants over guess prices and spin the big wheel. She didn't know why she liked it...she just did. She kne...

THE BEST LAID PLANS OF THEOBALD STERLING MANN part 1

Theobald Sterling Mann sat enjoying his usual breakfast of tea, toast and fresh-squeezed OJ. As he did on most days, he looked impeccable in his neatly pressed Arrow shirt and Van Heusen tie, complete with his father's antique rainbow trout tie clip. His wife, Betty, was noisily crunching through her bowl of Grape-Nuts but unlike most days, this multi-sensory assault was not dimming his mood. Today was the day. Seventeen years of marriage had robbed Betty of her looks, figure, and whatever had attracted him to her in the first place. She was, essentially, a cow. At 280+ pounds, the sight of her in her brown and white terrycloth robe reminded him of an overweight, aged Hereford. Her personality was, in his mind, on par with this comparison. Her bloodshot brown eyes stared blankly as she munched down her feed. She had been up late watching "reality TV" again. The only reality in Sterling Mann's mind this morning was that today was the day. His plan was coming to fruitio...

TWO WEEKS

 He was old enough to remember seasons.  Warm, sunny days of summer. Cold, dark days of winter. Spring rains. Autumn leaves. March always came in like a lion. But it no longer left like a lamb. The winds and storms had grown stronger and less predictable every year for the past twenty. Dear Leader said any changes in the weather were a hoax, perpetuated by his enemies just to make him look bad. He said it was part of a natural cycle. He never bothered to give any real proof. When it was convenient, he'd say it was God's will. He'd say anything but the truth. The fact of the matter was much simpler. Humans were destroying their own planet. All in the name of profit. --- He had just received notice that his homeowner's insurance policy was being cancelled. Thirty years without a missed payment. Not once had he filed a claim. The reason? His house was old. There were too many trees near it. Most of his neighbors received the same notice. --- The Wi-Fi and the power were no...

FLOWERS

  He was up early. Thunderstorms woke him throughout the night, and once up he’d never been good at getting a good night’s sleep afterward. The sun was out, peeking through the trees beyond his yard. While sitting on the toilet, he looked out the window and saw them. Little patches of bluish-white flowers. Tiny little things. Very pretty - but he’d never seen them before. There were four or five little clumps of them in his yard. He could see them in his neighbor’s yard too. The rain must’ve given them the push they needed. He didn’t give it any more thought. He ate lunch on the front porch. He noticed the little flowers in his front yard too, as well as the yards of all of his neighbors. The little things popped up faster than dandelions. At three o’clock, he went out to grab the mail. The little flowers were popping up around the post of his mailbox. He noticed they were coming up through the cracks in the pavement on the street and sidewalk. Crazy old Mrs. Hughes was trying to t...

The Spider, The Stinkbug, and Gus

The spider knows the world through tension.   Every strand carries information. Every vibration means something. The fly is frantic. The moth is heavy thunder. Gnats are nervous tremors. This one is wrong. It has weight, but no panic. Movement, but no struggle. The spider approaches slowly, legs barely touching the silk. Then the air changes. The warning spreads across the strands - sharp, bitter, chemical. The spider stops. Not food. Never food. The spider withdraws. And begins cutting. The stink bug knows the world through surfaces. Warm means light. Cool means shadow. Vertical means climb. It pushes forward slowly, deliberately, the threads tightening around it. Movement nearby. Presence. Predator. The stink bug releases its defense. The stench spreads. Warning. Stay away. The tension loosens. The surface collapses beneath it. The stink bug climbs. Stink bugs are just nasty. Even the cat knows this. The cat sometimes investigates anyway. Instinct is stronger than judgment. ...