Tag: life

Today I am Compost

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story… Essay?

Because I meant to make a story today. I really did. I had this grand idea about organic material and how it feeds into one another. In it, there was a cute little mushroom who grew up learning the strange, constant flow of information from his connected family through the electrical impulses they send one another.

It’s actually science, that one. Not me making stuff up again. Mushrooms and trees are probably talking behind our backs under our feet right now, say (paraphrased) Plant Pathologists and Microbiologists.

But the text response I send to my brother is “I’m currently sitting in front of 2415 works I kinda hate about a mushroom. Gonna take a break.“

And I am going to take a break. I’m so mad at this poor, innocent mushroom for not developing himself into something publishable, even after multiple chunks of paragraphs, that I’m instead writing about how much I hate it to just get some words out.

I feel like you understand. We are all crafty in our own way- whether your medium is words or clay or wire or dough or dungeon-ous minifigures. And sometimes those freaking things get away from us, becoming their own thing instead of molding under our fingertips as requested.

It feels rude! Are we not their creator?!

But alas. My mushroom pal is not to be. So I’m allowing myself to grab the rare mini Dr. Pepper from the fridge. They’re delicious, and I will make up for the calorie deficient somewhere else today. I always think of author John Green when I grab a Dr. Pepper. Not in a weird way, but he’s brought up his Dr. Pepper obsession in two of his books and at least every other podcast episode so I cannot help but associate the two. He drinks the diet kind though, and I would never do something so sacrilegious as disobey the good Doctor’s prescription by replacing real sugar with artificial (please don’t come at me, Diet Coke fanatics, I’m actually rather afraid of you).

I’m taking my mini Dr.Pepper outside. It’s damp and humid from all the rain yesterday, but so lusciously quiet. Normally my neighborhood teems with the happy sounds of toddlers screeching, old men yelling at their lawn mowers, and the teen across the street working on his basketball dribble: Thump thump thu-thump.

But the dampness has kept them all inside. Even the wrens, known accurately for their talkative ways, are quiet. I assume they’re mad I haven’t replaced the birdseed after the storm and are either pouting or, more likely, harassing a distant feeder instead. Only me and the occasional mourning dove, who does not mind a slightly moist sunflower seed.

I have two oak trees in my back yard that I’m very fond of. They are the kind of tall and aged that makes one wonder what things such elders have seen. I often think they are quite cinematic, photogenic. But my attempts to subject them in my “artsy” Instagram posts have not gone well.

The deck chairs are damp, so I figure why not go ahead and sit with one of these lovely trees? I’ll have to change pants once back inside either way, so let’s just confirm the weird-neighbor rumor if anyone looks outside.

How to choose? They’re both good sit-spots. This is when I notice a bright orange blight at the bottom of the larger oak. What’s this?! I work very hard to keep my yard tended and healthy! Alright, I work kinda hard. I work hard when there’s time. I try.

Stomping over, I find that it’s not a big orange blight, but instead a strange mound of peachy mushroom. How appropriate.

“Mocking me, are you?” I ask the mushroom.

It doesn’t respond.

I stare at it a bit, and decide proudly that this is a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom. If I wait a few hours, I can confirm this by the soft, unearthly glow it will give at dusk. I’m getting to know mushrooms better, watching a foraging YouTuber and reading several herb books. I figure if our various leaders are going to blow up the world, we’ll still need to eat afterwards and best to figure out now what’s poisonous and what’s yummy.

The Jack-o-Lantern is on the “no snacking” list. It feels like this should be obvious- one should not risk putting glowing forest objects into one’s mouth. But unfortunately, there are three other kinds of mushroom that are of similar color, grow in the same places, and are excellent sources of nutrients. I know my Jack-o-Lantern is none of these though because as I lean closer, I can see the moss surrounding it has begun to recede in a slow retreat. This guy is apparently poisonous to everyone, not just us vertebrates.

But not dangerous to sit next to. And I’m enough of a stereotypical writer that I think perhaps sitting with a mushroom will help me write about it better.

What do you think- Is this going well? Is it helping?

It’s better than the little gill-capped lad I was trying to create, I tell you that. Most anything would be better.

I set my Dr. Pepper down next to the mushroom on a flat bit of ground. Then, worrying about spores, I move it to the other side of me while giving the mushroom my best “don’t touch my stuff and I won’t dig you out and throw you on the stick pile” glare.

It doesn’t respond to this either.

A deep breath, that’s the ticket. Meditating has never been a skill of mine, but I do find a peace among the world’s natural sounds. The mourning dove is sending out an occasional curious “coorcoo?” wondering why it’s alone. The branches above me are playfully jostling in the wind. Something skitters in the back brush- probably one of the damn squirrels that digs in my flowerpots, little varmint- but I let that anger go and return to my breath.

A creak, probably the oak shifting, peering down at me. Perhaps it thinks Oh here’s the little one from the house leaning on me, how interesting. Perhaps I’m not interesting to the tree at all and the thought is more Lordy not another one, but I feel like we have an acquaintance at least. I pick up its leaves and fallen branches, spray it for invading bugs each spring. It shades my deck and holds up my bat house. We’re companions in a way.

This makes me look again at the mushroom, “Are you hurting my tree? Or just chilling?”

It shifts a little.

Had to be the wind but I huff a laugh, “Is that a yes or no, friend?”

It shifts a little more.

This would bother some people. But I am a certified Weirdo and am okay with the moving abouts of things that should not be moving about. Don’t get me started on the ghost that lived in my first apartment, for example. A mushroom shifting in the wind that… has actually stopped… blowing? Does not disturb me much. I do move my Dr. Pepper a little further away though, onto one of the rocks guarding my peony garden. Imagine a caffeinated poisonous mushroom!

Wait- is that my story? Do I add my little mushroom fella somehow getting his hands on a cup of coffee? Maybe I tie that into the new real world mushroom-coffee fad? And maybe say that mushrooms are trying to take over the world via our stimulant addiction??

No, no. Another deep breath. That’s far too much like the jellyfish story I’m writing. And that one is going better so I don’t want to sacrifice its good idea to fix today’s tale.

I look down again at the splayed pastels next to me. I wish I’d brought my phone out with me to take a picture of it, but I’m trying to do this new thing where I just walk away from my phone for a while. Probably good for my eyes.

Did I slide closer to it when I moved my soda? Odd. I give it a little more space. I don’t know for absolute certain that the only way it can kill you is if you eat it, I’m just pretty sure.

It is gorgeous though. Its caps look like spraying waves frozen in time. I wonder why this one, out of the multiple mushrooms that cosplay as nightlights, got the name Jack-o-Lantern. It’s not even the only orange one, if I’m remembering correctly. Maybe it was just discovered first?

It shifts again.

Third time doesn’t feel like the charm in this scenario and the little hairs on my neck stand in agreement. I’m about to head inside and talk myself out of my spooky thoughts (because really, it’s just thoughts, writers get carried away with our own fiction so often), when a black centipede shimmies out from under one of the caps.

“Oh it’s been you!” I address the bug, now glistening in a bit of sunlight, “You nearly scared me there, little guy.”

The centipede is not impressed with my musings and quickly makes his way up the tree without even a how do you do.

I shake my head. Out here for some air and I’ve not only personified a plant but made it eerie. Try to focus again. Deep breath. The dove coos again. Deeper breath. Close your eyes and feel the sun on your lids.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Ah, pavement must have dried up enough for the teen to come out for practice. Good for him.

Thump thump thu-thump.

If I focus on the bounces, which I must tell him next time I see him are defiantly getting more consistent, it’s almost like one of those drums meditation leaders use to help you hone in on a single thing.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The breath comes easier now, I can feel my own rhythmic system align itself, all my earlier frustration seeping out into the earth.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Something, perhaps a small bug, moves along my thigh, and I quickly flick it away and try to remain in the zone.

Thump thump thu-thump.

It’s lovely, really, out here in the damp moss, under a tree that has endured so much.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The bug lands on my thigh again. Did I spill some Dr. Pepper on it or something to attract him? Another flick, another deep breath.

Thump thump thu-thump.

This time when it lands, I let it. It’s too late in the season for mosquitos. Probably just a cranky fly. I won’t even dignify it with looking. I relax my eyebrows. If it wants to sit there while I breathe, fine.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I’m getting rather good at this meditation. Perhaps having that conscious thought means that I am actually not, but it feels like it. I can feel myself becoming less a bunch of limbs on the ground and more just space out in more space. Feels good.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The air smells alive. How nice to be alive with it. The sun seems to be moving away.

Thump thump thu-thump.

How long have I been out here if the sun is moving? I really am getting very good at this. In a moment though, I will have to open my eyes and go inside. Feed the cat, run the laundry, etc.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Just another moment though. This feels so nice. These breaths are so deep, entering my whole being.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I don’t feel the little bug anymore. In fact, I’m not quite sure I feel much at all.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I feel sedative. Feel pulsing as one with the soil.

Thump thump thu-thump.

We feel lovely down here.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Oh we do glow in the evening. Isn’t that fascinating.

The Word

Compost: (noun) Decayed organic material used as a plant fertilizer. (verb) Make (vegetable matter or manure into compost.

Gotcha! I’m okay- didn’t actually turn into a mushroom! That I’m aware of anyway. They do “communicate” via electrical impulses, and you’re reading this via a kind of electric impulse, so who’s to say?

This story did grow out of another one about a goofy mushroom. Maybe you’ll meet him someday, and maybe like many of his fungi brethren, he will never see the light of day. But today, I turned him back into the earth to come a new life- this spooky-ish story above. I don’t try stream-of-conscious often, partly because I’m a control freak and partly because it simple isn’t my forte. But how do we improve without practice?

And, Jack-o-Lanterns (the carved gourd, not the mushroom) were actually named from an Irish tale about a man named Jack who for makes a bad deal with the devil and has to carry around hell fire as his only light. So, Jack-o-Lanterns (the mushroom, not the carved gourd) are well suited for the realm of spooky.

And it’s very much becoming spooky season, isn’t it, dear readers?

Happy reading!

Today I am Gifted

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I can see.

This is one of those first not-thoughts a baby probably has. You spend nine (coughTENANDAHALF) months cooped up in a dark safe space and then AHHHH AHHHH shluuuurk there’s light and sound and some weirdo counting your offshoots. It’s no wonder we enter this world screaming.

It’s so damn bright.

The mammal eyeball is arguable among scientists to be the most complex evolved organ. There are some biologists, whose papers are still under review, who would like to argue that the jellyfish rhopalia is even more complex, and its mysteries are still hidden within the divine.

To this I resolutely say: So? That’s still an eye. Dang, why are we arguing about eyeballs? Or, excuse me, visual-interpretive physiology.

It’s all very complicated. Pupils and ocellis and gook. Yet not a single one of us: human, jellyfish, bat, butterfly, bird, even those mantis shrimp who can perceive all those extra colors, can adjust to see as fast as a light can shine.

We are all weak to the bursting illumination. It is so damn bright.

Conclusion being, I should not have felt too embarrassed to find out the deafening scream shaking my soul was coming from my own throat.

Because oh my actual God that was an angel.

“Be not afraid.”

“HOLY FUCK!”

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, for we come with-“

“HOLY. FUCK. WHAT THE HELL.”

There was a long, silent pause. Perhaps they were trying to give me a moment. I needed far more than a moment.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a-“

“OH MY GOD. SWEET JESUS.”

Perhaps it was the painfully intense rouge of the sunset, but in a short moment of awareness, it seemed that the hundreds of eyes squinted in irritation.

A hum moved through the air.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a path-“

“OH. MY. GOD. ARE YOU FUCKING ANGELS?”

I was apparently still alive and in a timeline that had some sort of relevance to my own, because I did have a millisecond to recognize this was a stupid question.

Because if not angels, what else were they? Everything I’d heard or seen (admittedly, in amateur horror films) about demons were dark and/or red, and these… Beings? Were, well, I’m not entire sure what color pure light is. I’d like to say white, but it’s more so such a brightness that color bows out of the equation.

I swear I heard a sigh.

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, we come with good news.”

Oh damn, maybe I was dead.

Because let me tell you- I am no shepherd. I mean, I shepherd a couple technical deployments for government branches who are planning on launching missiles before all the other government branches I also work for do, but I don’t feel like that’s the same as sheep, despite what some politicians say.

The only alive people I could think of that angels spoke to were shepherds and virgins. And thanks to Charlene Carol sophomore year, I wasn’t that either.

“AM I DEAD?”

I could not stop shouting. Honestly, I wished I could. I felt rude. But you see a being made from God’s first drafts and keep a level tone, then you can judge.

“Steven Winters, you shall live. You shall live on the path chosen for you alone, which we bring to you this day and-“

“HOW MANY LANGUAGES CAN YOU SPEAK?”

Where this question came from, I do not know. But I’d been working with our AI agent on understanding foreign characters so I could suggest turn it off and back on again to international spies researchers, so perhaps it was just on the brain.

There was the not-squint again. I was perhaps testing eternal patience.

“We can speak to all His Children, despite their language. You may hear us in your tongue.”

I nodded back as if this was normal. As if my backyard frequently hosted the divine. I glanced towards the grill, abandoned when a great thundering announced the presence of my current guests. Should I offer them a tuna steak? My mother had instilled host priorities deep into my bones, surely that applied to the other worldly. Or this worldly. Next worldly. Whatever.

Plus it would make an okay excuse to get take a second, get my heartbeat under control. I gestured with my tongs at the grill in a (what I hoped was) universal want some? conveyance.

The many eyes opened wider, and an orange shimmer skipped over the many encircling rings hovering a few feet above my bird feeder.

“Yes, Steven Winters. We would love a tuna steak.”

“Faaaaaantastic. Sauce?” Food was a language I understood.

The warm hum filtered through the air again. Then, “We will receive the offering spiced only.”

I pulled the fish from the grill. Despite the unique interlude, it was a perfect medium rare. I plucked a piece of cilantro from my scraggly herb garden and placed it atop the best looking slice.

Hesitantly, I placed the plate at the mossy ground before sticking a fork in the piece I prepared for myself. It had a little char, but I liked it that way.

I opened my mouth to ask how to better serve the angelic being (do they need cutlery?), but before I could, I saw the plate was already empty.

“Thou art kind and artful with the meat given of the waters, Steven Winters.”

“I, uh, thank you,” I said, navigating a large piece into my mouth with my shaking fingers to stop talking. It was indeed the best tuna I had ever cooked. I unashamedly moaned. Must remember to re-up my subscription to Penny’s Spices.

There were several moments of silence passed between us. The evening cooled, the dusk overturned to dark. A few bats soared out from the house I had set up for them, but spotting the bright being, scattered to the trees for shelter. My neighbor loudly strolled his garbage bin to the end of his driveway, waved casually at me, and returned inside.

“Steven Winters.”

“Yes. So sorry. Never had literal divine intervention before.”

“Mmm. Mmhmm. Be not afraid.”

“You very much hesitated that time,” I pointed at it with my fork, because I was clearly insane and apparently manners were the first thing to go, “so I feel like afraid is maybe something I should consider.”

“No, Steven Winters. Thou wilt receive a gift.”

“But is this like a genie gift? Where it seems like a gift but it’s really a curse?”

I knew I was pushing it. My soul ricocheted inside me from the tip of my forehead to my slippered toes, as if pacing itself through my horrible decisions. I couldn’t help myself. I had been a good kid in Sunday school! I knew Abraham had to psychologically torture his own kid. Mary had to leave her home and straight up had to watch her son get killed! Moses gets blocked from paradise, Hagar got lost in the desert, Jacob? maybe Job, it’s been a while, had to freaking wrestle divinity itself! I was not in comfortable angel-witnessing company. Yet I pushed.

“I’m just saying, y’all’s track record-“

“Steven. Winters.”

Oh yeah, I had upset them. Too bad shutting-up was not among my talents: “You have to be at the wrong place.”

Because I was a nobody. Not in the way Mary was a Nobody, quietly descended from King David and righteous in all her actions. No no- I was born a white, dirty blond, 5’9″ Presbyterian, barely baptized by unenthusiastic parents, drank too much and had not made it past a situationship with a reputable woman. These shiny things had landed in the wrong backyard. Or! Or. Or I was having a very hallucinative seizure. I hadn’t quite ruled that out yet.

“The Lord Your God does not lead astray.”

Oh okay, then explain Charlene Carol, but whatever. At least I had almost recovered control of my vocal cords.

“What can I… do for his… His. Lordship?”

The being seemed to shimmer with satisfaction. Cool cool cool.

“Steven Winters. You are shown a path into the wilderness. Your Lord God chooses you to lead His children into a place of safety until the storm hath passed you by.”

Oh good. A Noah-level task. I could barely put my Ikea furniture together with an automatic screwdriver and a six pack. I should really not be trusted with an ark.

Before I could object- and I was going to object- there was a noisy rustling around me. Cinnamon, a deer I had so named due to her gorgeous dusky copper fur, stepped out from my hydrangeas with her spotted twins and several unfamiliar siblings. A raccoon family pulled themselves from under my shed while two possums loaded with their litter skittered down from my half-dead oak trees. The few bats I had thought ran off settled next to the wrens on my fence, as multiple hummingbirds buzzed by my ears. I looked down at my leg to inspect a new sensation, seeing the mainecoon-ish stray cat I’d been calling Booger curling around my feet.

“These… children?”

I turned to set my plate down, but it was gone and my hands were free. Fine.

“Steven Winters.” I swear the voice that made my bones buzz sounded happily tempered now, “Much is to come. You are to go into the mountains. You are to lead His Children up the path. At the peak, where His sun rises and sets, you will find a home where you will remain until you are Called.”

I looked at all the creatures peeking nervously back at me. There were hooves and fangs and wings. I had placed feeders to lure them, traps to dissuade them, and now I was to lead them?

“Well. Alright then,” I felt suddenly solid, decision made, “can I… can I get a stick? A stick seems good.” All the best guys in stories had a stick.

A staff appeared in my right hand. It was twisted gray driftwood, yet sturdy in the soft ground.

“God be with you, Steven Winters.”

The Beings, the light, the tuna steak, were gone.

Just me and my new stick and a bunch of wide-eyed forest creatures.

Cool cool cool.

“Alright gang,” I said, feeling two of the bats settle on the hood of my sweatshirt, “let’s get going.”

The Word

Gifted (adj): having exceptional talent or natural ability.

How many of us were in the “gifted” program in Elementary/Middle/High school? How many of us thought that would do literally anything for us in the adult world?

Me. I did.

It’s several years too late to talk to Gen-X and Millennials about the trauma we accrued from Gifted Programs. But settling into the other side of young-adulthood, it’s really sinking in that no one is coming to deliver us from the regular class to play mathematical board games.

For me, this lesson came HARD in my first job- where my naturally bubbly personality was viewed as ignorant and flirtatious. It wasn’t enough to be right, I had to be right in the right way. I had to dull my gift to be seen as the correct kind of shiny. I hated it, I still hate it, and I feel deeply for a world we could have where we were actually ourselves and the work got done.

Today was a particularly hard day for “gifted doesn’t mean everything is a gift to you” lessons. I stared it in the face, and crumbled. I had to call for backup, I had to rally the reinforcements, I had to drink some wine and cry.

And from that turmoil came Steven Winters. Who is nobody. Who just happened to be exceptionally good at math in his younger years, and although it got him a scholarship, all it’s done since then is make his life monotony. Until he finds a much greater Gift than Gifted is upon him whether he likes it or not.

I hope the same for all us formally-Gifted kids. That, if we haven’t already, we might find that bearing of purpose in a tumultuous sea of expectations. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if someone just told us which way to go? Alas, we are not all Steven Winters.

Just a note- I am totally plugging Penzy’s Spice. Or I tried. But autocorrect kept making it “Penny’s” so I gave up and decided it was a sign about copywright or something. Anyway, Penzy’s Spices is awesome.

Happy reading, my dears. And may a compass always be nearby when you feel lost.

Today I am Placid

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized
You might enjoy this story more if you read Hectic first!

The Story

He entertained himself quite a bit by randomly sowing seeds from his now mostly useless bug-out-bag whenever he spotted good dirt.

“Johnny-zombie-seed, they’ll call me,” he chuckled, patting the small mound of soil affectionately.

The vulture was not amused. It pecked at Todd’s legs until he stood and re-shouldered his pack.

“Alright, alright,” Todd dug his right forefinger and thumb into his left brachialis, “here ya go, bud.” He held the bit of muscle and skin aloft, felt the familiar clamp of a strong beak on his finger tips as the creature settled onto his shoulders. Thinking for a moment on the nature of fate, he found it funny that he had learned all these body parts, not for saving himself or anyone else like he prepared, but to know what he was serving his feathery friend.

“We’re gonna need to find another squirrel or something soon. I actually don’t know how functional I’ll be without some of these,” he tentatively flexed his left arm. It still moved up as told, but with a little hitch.

“And we still have a ways to go.”

He pulled a small notebook from the pack’s side pocket. On it he’d written all of the places he thought might be interesting to see on the continent: Redwoods, Everglades, Library of Congress, Mississippi River, Niagara Falls, Denali Point, Yellowstone Park… He planned to venture down to South America when he was done. And he really wanted to see Mount Everest, Victoria Falls, the Great Barrier Reef too. But he wasn’t exactly sure how an undead might traverse the ocean. He’d experimented accidentally in water before and yes, he still floated. But he imagined with a rigged set of weights and drowning no longer a concern, walking from one continent to another was technically an option. Except for the absence of a guidance system. And Todd did not think it a fun idea to get lost puttering around on the ocean floor until the sun exploded. So he planned to deal with those traveling plans later and enjoy what he could more easily reach in the meantime.

Turns out Ol’ Faithful was indeed pretty faithful, still putting on her display without anyone to watch. Long after some fire or another seemed to have swallowed most of her surrounding national park, she was still quite the beauty he thought. He’d loved the Redwoods as much as he had as a child camping with his father. But the Grand Canyon had bored him. He supposed its grandness may have been more captivating when one had the threat of falling to their death or even a notion towards the passage of time, neither of which really concerned Todd anymore.

His loyal companion had seemed to enjoy the ride as well. Often they’d walk as a single oddly hulking figure, vulture tucked into the top of Todd’s backpack. Sometimes it took off and flew for a while before returning, either with a snack or simply stretched wings. A few times, the fowl had disappeared for a whole day or so but it always caught back up, often with dried sludge on its beak.

Todd didn’t much have a route he was taking. It was more “head towards the next interesting thing” while avoiding packs of humans, whether dead or still alive. He’d learned the hard way that avoidance was best.

His first encounter with his fellow zombies had gone rather dreadfully. He assumed that since they were one and the same, they wouldn’t be bothering him much. He even lifted a decaying hand in polite wave.

However, they clearly did not feel that same brotherhood.

They, for they did move as a lumbering herd, steered themselves towards him and began to speed up. At first Todd hadn’t moved away because he thought maybe they were coming to introduce themselves, perhaps? Were these beings also unsure what to do with themselves now that the work of survival was done? The vulture hopped off him and flew towards the group, distracting a few by smelling alive as it plucked yummy pieces from their unflinching bodies.

Then the herd had started growling.

“Well, that seems unnecessary. Unless that’s your only form of communication, in which I apologize. But I-“

Close enough now to see the hunger in their dry eyes, he took off in an uncoordinated jog. When he got to a safe distance past several buildings and in the shade of a tall oak, he paused. Did his gut feeling that had kept him safe all his life not work when there were no guts?

He admonished himself for taking such a chance, even though he still wasn’t entirely sure of the horde’s intentions. What could they possibly have wanted from him that they couldn’t take from each other? He shook his head, and with the vulture back on his shoulder he took off once more.

The run-in with the alive humans had been much more unsettling. He’d come across them quite by accident when he was passing through the weedy fields of what he’d thought was an abandoned farm. He figured he’d just walk on by, maybe pet the pigs on the way, nab a piglet for the vulture.

It occurred to him too late why the pigs were still in a pen at all.

“GET ITS HEAD! SHOOT IT IN THE HEAD!”

“No I’m not going to eat you, I’m just lost-“

“THE HEAD, SARAH!”

“Please, I just…” he’d attempted to lumber away quickly. Several fast footsteps were drawing in behind him as his friend screeched wildly in the sky.

Then miraculously, Todd’s hastened retreat resulted in a clumsy trip, a missed hand grab on a tall bank, and falling into a river. This is when he learned he did indeed still float, but that he had not gained the ability to swim. Apparently one needed to learn such things while alive. So he wrestled himself onto his back, and allowed the current to pull him in whatever direction the river was choosing.

He briefly heard a “Did that one talk?” from high above and a “no, damn Sarah, we have to get you out of the sun” just before the noisy water drowned everything out.

He floated along, thankful again to Whoever Was Up There, because although he had not quite settled on the best way to leave this world, he didn’t think seeing angry, terrified farmers in his last moments is what he wanted.

When the river deposited him on a different bank several miles away, the vulture only took a little over an hour to catch up.

Since then, Todd had avoided anything remotely human-looking by skirting around towns and hiding when there was any chatter in the wind. It just was not worth the hassle.

Near the end of another day, the odd pair came upon what looked to be a red dessert.

“I think we’re in Wyoming, friend. Might be Utah but I do think we successfully headed northeast. The Devil’s Tower monument should be around here somewhere. Maybe in the morning we’ll find it and become rock climbers, huh?”

The bird squorked in disagreement. Why climb when one can fly? it seemed to huff.

“Yeah, yeah,” Todd settled them into shallow cavern in one of the shorter rock faces. Along the walls, lit barely by sunset’s last rays, were scrawls of humans long gone: Evan and Trudy 4ever, Kai was here!, Eleanor + Lu 1997. He ran his fingers across the markings. Once, while on a field trip to some sort of mine when he was in elementary school, his teacher had threatened that anyone who carved their name into a tree or a rock would be in detention until she retired.

It is a desecration of historical nature by delinquents! she’d hooted, cheeks puffy red, and her class would NOT be among them!

Now, Todd felt oddly thankful for these rebels who had escaped their teacher’s or parents’ eye. Sure, he thought, they scraped away stone that had stood for billions of years, and that was kind of uncool. But isn’t that what cave people had been praised for? Wasn’t he echoing that same archeological sentiment right now, feeling pangs of one-ness with people who were, statistically, gone?

He sat down against the cool stone. These dead days, philosophical questions seemed to stir in Todd more than they ever had in life. He simply hadn’t had the time before! He worked hard and had enjoyed his simple life of good coffee and mystery novels. He’d never asked for more, yearned for more, even thought about what more might mean.

And yet he had no regrets. There was no romantic partner he wished he’d held onto. No dramatic parting he wished he’d done differently. In each of his moments, he’d reasoned he’d done what he could. He was still mostly proud of the quiet life he lived.

Just perhaps now that his mind had all this time to wonder as he wandered, it was poking in all those untouched crevices of his synapses.

“Watch, now that there’s no one to tell,” he reached out and softly petted his friend’s leathery head, “I’m going to figure out the meaning of life.”

The vulture gave him an unconvinced stare, then rustled itself onto the pack for the evening. It finished with a gargled huff in his direction.

Yeah, right.

The Word

Placid (adjective): 1. Of a person or animal, not easily upset or excited. 2. Especially of a place or stretch of water, calm and peaceful, with little movement or activity.

I told y’all I love Todd and his vulture friend, and that he’d probably be back! And back he is. I wasn’t sure where Todd was headed next, so I thought this time we’d just follow him and see where he was going, just for the joy of writing. I’ve really enjoyed building his world out a little bit more, and I hope you’re enjoying the exploration as well.

Sometimes things don’t have to be complicated with a dozen meanings, they can just be whatever they turn out to be 🙂

Happy reading!