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“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.” –Blinded Gloucester in KING LEAR by William Shakespeare

he is naked in a huge sphere in interstellar space and cannot remember how he got here

the sphere is transparent and he floats near its center gently pushed hither and yon by a cool breeze

there is a galaxy nearby but no star near enough to be a local sun

he drowses and sleeps and when he wakes he sees another sphere quite close

it is blue but for a tiny human figure floating near its center

he realizes his sphere must be blue too

gently the spheres draw close and when they touch there is an anticlimactic clacking sound

the figure within the other sphere floats toward him and he wonders if it is their personal gravities pulling them together

she is female and would be far too young for him except he sees that the body he is in is no longer old is somehow many years younger than it had been

both of them instinctively put out their hands when they arrive at the touching place and their palms are mere intimate inches apart

her softly swaying hair and enticing shape arouse him and he blushes and pushes away

“children,” says a voice, “i plucked you from your planet after learning something about it, and about you.

“you are perfectly suited to each other. you never would have met but for me. and i have made of you a work of art.

“but do not rejoice. the theme of this art show is Futility. and the title of my piece is Pale Blue Balls.”

with that, the spheres dissolved, and the air within them as well…

but before the two could die of decompression, they woke in their separate home-planet homes, thousands of miles apart, their bodies as they were, with the grim knowledge that they would never meet in real life…

unless they defied Reality Itself.

2021 1101 dream of a 10 yr old

Sometimes old dreams float up to the surface of consciousness after more than half a century. This is one such, but it is not a faithful recording of the dream, which did involve being on a strange planet in the dark, but didn’t have any floating triangles. What it is is the collaboration of two dreamers, one a kid, and one that still-kid decades hence.

Here’s another story I’ve submitted to postcardshorts.com. One of the puns was cheerfully lifted from an old READER’S DIGEST joke, but I trust I altered it enough not to infringe.

When Time Ran Out the Back Door

We were frozen. We had not run out of time, but Time had run out the back door of our virtual ranch-style home. We still perceived, because Time’s little brother, Minnit/r/2, kept a noneye on the room.

Ninety sortaseconds passed. Minnit/r/2 said, in his little piping voice, “I wonder what the dealio is. Must be dire. You guys are infrit if–”

But Time then strode back in, and we could breathe again. “Sorry, guy & gals. A black hole happened around. I was dilated to see it, but it gave me a little diss/torsion . . .” and as if to illustrate, Time did a little wavery wiggle.

Minnit/r/2 asked to be excused, and his brother said sure. “Just be back in yourself.”

To celebrate, we bellied up to the   space   bar.

There will be no images with this post, though I may some day calligraph the phrase abbreviated above. The letters stand for “Kindly Eschew Relational Otological Micturition Whilst Reporting Precipitation.” It is a cousin to “Eschew Obfuscation,” which translates with some trouble to “Avoid being deliberately confusing,” making it delightfully self-contradictory. “Eschew Obfuscation” was introduced to me by a woman I knew as Dot Morrison, a former co-worker of my former wife Joni. Dot is (or was; I’ve lost track of her since my divorce) the mother-in-law of Hugo-Award-winning science fiction novelist Kim Stanley Robinson. I hope Dot is alive and well. She was wise, a brilliant conversationalist, and a Clarence DeMar fan, just like me, except for the Wise and Brilliant Conversationalist part.

Translation: “Please don’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining.” Dot, you liked my proposed bumper sticker “Bush Happens.” Hope you like this one too! [smiles]

Image

on a froth of comet tail
the solar-wind-borne
misadventure
began:
the diatomaceous
thought-harvesting array
cast its sub-etheric net
randomly
and struck analoguic gold:
in the northern-by-western quadrant
of a planet circling its star
at a distance of 105.5 starwidths
came a sense/memory impression
of such indulgent delight
that the array took possession
of the creature who’d forged the memory
and force it to re-enact the event
whence the memory had sprung.

thus it was, my dear,
that i had no choice
but to buy and eat
a second candy bar
from the vending machine
last night.

thank goodness
i wasn’t thinking
about women,
eh?

where are you going?

Image

The 16th-Century apothecary and prognosticator Michel de Nostredame, popularly known as Nostradamus, is most likely better-known than the 20th-century biochemist, raconteur, limericist, Futurian, essayist, humorist, correspondent, toastmaster, and, yes, prognosticator, Isaac Asimov. Dr. Asimov is perhaps best known for his Foundation series, which covered more than a thousand years of Galactic history. But he also wrote Asimov’s Guide to Science, Asimov’s Guide to Shakespeare, Asimov’s Guide to the Bible, and about four hundred other books that made him the only author to have original writing in every single major Dewey Decimal System classification in the library. His daily writing streak extended from his teens till close to the end of his death at 72. In addition to his books, he corresponded with EVERYONE who wrote him–over one hundred THOUSAND letters.

Indeed, one of the biggest regrets of my life is that I never wrote him. I wanted to–I had found what was perhaps a fatal flaw in the logic of his science-fiction short story “Billiard Ball.” But I had not the wherewithal to do so. Alas! His letter to me would have been one of my most prized possessions.

My late, great father was fond of saying “Less prediction, more production.” This is the latest of my several salutes to him. And I’d also acknowledge Thomas Carlyle for his immortal quotation: “Produce! Produce! Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in God’s name! ‘Tis the utmost thou hast in thee: out with it, then. Up, up! Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might. Work while it is called Today; for the Night cometh, wherein no man can work.” And–what the hell, grateful acknowledgment also to Harlan Ellison, writer of more than one thousand short stories, without whom I might never have read Carlyle’s quotation.