Piddling Drivel

  Are you afraid to die?   During a recent hike I thought about this, and the notion has taken up residence in my head since then.  A trail my wife and I were on had a section that was quite hazardous with slick, moss-carpeted rocks and a steep downward slope on one side.  As happens often my imagination got the best of me, and I envisioned myself slipping on the rocks and dropping over the edge, my scream echoing off the surrounding mountains we'd been admiring only minutes earlier. I imagined the pain my death would cause my wife and children, and the horror my wife would feel seeing me disappear, my screams most certainly haunting her for eternity. I suppose I'm not afraid to die; the older I get, the more I think, "Well, when it's my time, it's my time."   I think what actually scares me is dying a painful death.  That makes me a sissy, sure, but there you have it.  The pain, and also- and this is probably ridiculous- the idiotic concern ...

  So here's the final piece of my short story I teased a while ago.  Apologies for leaving most of the story out, but I'm hoping to have this one submitted to a literary journal soon.  Thanks for reading.   "It hurts, daddy.  I don't want you to go!"      "You know I can't stay here, physically, but remember- I'll always be with you."      "Daddy!  Please!" Barb cried.  "I love you!"      "I love you, too, my Barbie," the old man answered.  They hugged, a hug that Barb hoped would last forever.  She remembered how good her father's hugs felt.  She didn't want to let go.        As the kids approached, they found Barbara standing by the driftwood, staring out at the water.  Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she had her arms wrapped around herself.     "Mom, your freezing!"  shouted Travis.  Barbara snapped back to ...

  "The Voices", by F.R. Tallis is creepy reinvention of the classic haunted house tale, and was difficult to put down once I cracked it open.  Eerie responses to taped questions, unfathomable disappearances, baby monitor static and ghostly whisperings culminate in a clash between the here & now and the beyond in a frightful novel that'll give you goose bumps for sure.  Once again, a delightfully dark tale to please my palate.  I finished this one just now with barely enough time to complete my morning routine and head out the door for work, but it was well worth it.

  I like to read. Everything's fair game, from nutrition facts on food labels ( something I occasionally regret paying attention to) to assembly instructions (which I confess I often ignore); from spine tingling novels to tampon instructional leaflets (come on guys, who hasn't done that?  I mean, the box was right there next to the toilet, you're just sitting there anyway, right?).   My point is, I love reading and always wish I had more time for it.  I envy my wife, who can read while there's music blasting nearby, while she's got something she's watching on tv or while I'm babbling to her.  I can only read when I have complete quiet, and usually only in the morning.  I'm too easily distracted to try to read with background noise.  I know most people read in bed at night to help them fall asleep, and I've tried that.  That's the problem, though.  I start to read and can barely get through a paragraph or so before I start nodding off....

  Being a fan of things of a darker nature in general I typically scour the library shelves for spines with black and red.  Now, I know this is not the best way to select books, but it's how I usually do it, and this past weekend did not disappoint.  I've just finished Minette Walters' The Cellar, and this one was right up my alley.  The pacing, the voice and characters were perfect, and it was hard to put down once I cracked it open.  It's the kind of story I'd hope to come up with myself, and it left me curious about her other novels. The protagonist is a young African immigrant enslaved in a British home who quietly becomes her adoptive family's own worst nightmare.  She suffers at their hands, but ends up having the last laugh, so to speak. That's all I'll give away.  Check it out for yourselves if it sounds interesting.

There is nothing quite like the early morning hours, when I know most people are still warm in their beds, snoring away.     The silence is blissful, the tick of the baseboard heaters as the steam flows through their pipes and the hum of the laptop soothe me.  Even the coffee sliding down my throat seems amplified.  Occasionally, a vehicle passes by, but it's only a brief interruption in my silence.  My cat, a sleek tabby companion of twelve years graces my lap and I am forced to slide the laptop closer to my knees.  I pause to reward his steadfast loyalty with long, slow strokes of his silky coat.  Soon the rest of the world will be waking and my little bubble will burst.  Even on weekends, "sleeping in" for me means up by five or thereabouts.  My mornings are my time.  As I sit here, I think, I yawn and think some more.  I type, I stretch and type some more.  Soon, I'll have to leave this world and get ready to face the ...

I'm trying to determine whether this is a record review, a rant or a sad nod to a failing memory- I've had a love/hate relationship with Elton John since the early seventies.  I wish I could remember which of his fantastic hits was the first I'd heard, or where/when, exactly, I heard it.  Sadly, my brain has failed me over the years, and these are among the memories that have slipped into a void, never to be retrieved. I used to be the proud owner of a gargantuan vinyl collection, a good portion of which was the majority of Elton's catalog.  One of the very first albums I bought was "11-17-70", his first live album, broadcast by WABC in New York.   "Sixty Years On", one of my all-time favorites, is a fantastic tune which takes the studio version 10 steps further in my opinion, though both versions have their own qualities. My opening sentence is only partially true.  I've actually loved Elton's music since day one, with the exception of parts...