Copyright (C) 2020, Robert B. Reeder

Slow Hedgehog Publishing


CHAPTER 7:  It’s Always Autumn

It was nighttime again.  He prayed or did something resembling prayer.  The man was sincere this time,
and he spoke in hushed staccato phrases with an intensity previously reserved only for lotto picks. 
Please, please make me interesting and don’t let me fail. I feel like I’m about to fail and it is a miserable
possibility. I have surrounded myself with the tools and the self-hypnosis of success.  So far, nothing
is happening. Some people get stuck in a pattern of destruction or addiction. For me, the pattern is
really the absence of a pattern. There needs to be some serious disruption. Serious disruption, indeed. 
It’s time to stop talking foolishness and it’s time to stop daydreaming. Nice it would be, if it all just fell out
of the sky. Not gonna happen. At least not to me. But please, God, just give me a little.

This type of circular thinking/prayer/self-talk went on for hours, and then stretched into days.  Still,
he did nothing. A year passed, and the same seed of a thought would resurge, would explode like
an ocean wave against the barnacled cliffs, and then would make its own form of sea foam.  A pitiful
foam that dissipated before it was even formed, like too little spittle shaken from the jowls of an
arthritic hound.

Another year passed, and the man thought the same disastrous string of whiny marginal pleas. 
He finally acknowledged what he had known all along. I either do it myself, or I give up trying. 
This thought came around lunchtime, and it solidified itself into a form of mental cement by
dinnertime.  I do not have the courage to do it, he said, shakily, to himself. I don’t have the
courage, but I’m doing it.  I’m doing it now!

Of course, there was nothing that could be done until the morning, so he slept on the idea. 
This precious golden idea lulled the man into a peaceful slumber. It was one of the nicest nights
he had passed in ages.  He awoke restfully…and quite oblivious to the reason for his fitful sleep.
Like an automaton, the man got ready and went to work.  This was not the plan. He did not
remember the change in plans to which he had committed himself until just after lunchtime. What
am I doing here at work?  The memory and the failure made another small part of him die inside.
Immediately his mind raced and went down the awful mental pathways of self-recrimination. 
Thoughts of interesting and painful ways to punish himself played out in his mind. He groaned
audibly, which caused more than a few co-workers to lift their heads in his direction.  He censored
his agony and the co-workers returned to their various existences and routines.

Dear Lord, I hate myself.  I am pretty sure that You hate me as well.  You must, right? I mean,
compared to You I am less than a miserable ant.  I’m certainly not as good as so many people I
could list. Why haven’t you wiped me out yet?  I probably don’t even merit the effort. I can’t stand
myself. Here is what I love: TV. Bad food.  Mindless conversation. Cheap booze. That must be
what I love, because that’s how I spend my time. Other than work.  It’s always the same old thing.
I could get a hobby, but then it would only give me a little hope and prolong the bitterness.  Oh, but
it can’t be worse than it is now, can it?

The man bought some things for the sake of buying them and having more stuff.  He recriminated
himself for adding to his substantial debt. He bought some stronger alcohol.  As he knew instinctively
that it would, the void grew larger, darker, and more ominous. Forays into pornography, predictably
enough, did not lead to a meaningful relationship with a woman who loved him.  He bought a lot of
lottery tickets. They all failed him. Stupid lottery! It’s rigged. Somebody else always wins. Except
for the times when no one wins, and then it just makes you want to play it more because you delude
yourself into thinking that this time it has to pay off – I mean, I’ve put SO MUCH money and desire
into this – but it never works.  Even if I did win, with my luck 10 other people would win also and then
I’d have to split the winnings, and then after taxes, I mean, what is the point?

I need a simple plan, said the man.  I need to believe in myself. Take things one step at a time. 
Sounds easy enough. OK, a list is in order. Let me put it on paper and then I can work through it
all, cross it off as I go.  Nice idea. I feel better already. First, though, I need a snack. He binged
on snacks until he thought he would burst. And yet, he still tried to eat more to fill the void.  Two and
a half hours later he was shouting at himself until the neighbors banged at the wall.

The next morning, he woke up with a massive hangover.  I deserve that. I’m a piece of garbage.
I probably have cancer.  In his miserable self-pity he actually hoped to have cancer. He continued
the reverie of catastrophic scenarios until it was time to drag self into work.  Self was dragged in.
Work went through the motions. Work was of such nature that the motions were more than sufficient
to maintain employment. No recognition was given or expected.  The paycheck hovered near
subsistence levels. The man dragged himself away from work in much the same way he had
lethargically crept in.

Dear God, some people are given lucky breaks.  Isn’t it time for a break my way? Of course not;
I’ve earned nothing.  Not from You, not from work, not from the government or anyone. Still, I’ve
tried to be a good person and not antagonize society or anyone.  Would it kill anyone for me to get
a break? Dear God, I’m glad you aren’t punishing me or anything, and I’m sure I have it a lot better
than most.  In fact, if I’m honest with myself I know I have it pretty good. But I just can’t get past this
dark depression and inability to excel at anything. And I don’t have the passion or will to do anything
drastic.  I need to get some friends.

It was true that the man had no friends.  He had people in his life that could pass the surface test
of friendship.  But he had no one to talk with openly, and no one that saw him as irreplaceable.  He
was friendly without friendship. He was cordial without sociality. The bad thing was, his mind was
constantly racing and generating concepts that should be shared, debated, or demolished.  It kept
the bars of the man’s mental prison rusting and multiplying at the same time.

It was later that year that he realized how much he had coasted through the year.  I have fallen into
a lame routine, he thought. I have accomplished nothing. I have done nothing.  Even worse, it has
been months since I’ve even cared or thought about the fact that I am doing nothing.  If I could find
that miserable New Year’s Resolutions list I would burn the thing and flush the ashes down the toilet.

CHAPTER 8:  Winter, Spring, Summer, Fail

The man spoke with one of the neighbors one cold autumn morning.  Something about the dog.
He wasn’t listening. It wasn’t that interesting.  His semi-conscious mind directed his mouth to emit
the usual responses and shallow platitudes.  Just at the point in the conversation when his
distracted, retracted, and un-engaged mind thought the talk would wind down, it didn’t.  The
neighbor mentioned the weather. Last night’s dinner. Sports. The dog again. It was starting to
get tiresome. Worse than that, it was starting to get strange.  He never had these types of
conversations with anyone, especially not with the neighbors. His passive mind decided it must
shake off the sleep and become part of the conversation.  He heard himself ask about the dog.
Well yes, said the neighbor. That’s what I’ve been trying to say. Nobody will listen. I feel like this
seal out in the harbor barking my lungs out and no one cares to listen.  Thank you for listening.
The man had no real clue as to what he had listened to. None at all. You are welcome. Any time.
Hey, it’s Saturday. I can go back in and get a bite to eat and then sleep a while. His brain
whispered a guilty note to self that this would waste away his day.  Take this route and you will
recriminate yourself come five PM. Then what will you do, go out dancing? No, you will watch
some commercial-laden movie on TV, something you’ve seen a dozen times. Go rent a sailboat
or something. Hell, steal a car! The man told his brain to knock it off and get some sense.

The man sat on the back porch, mindlessly eating some soggy cereal.  The view of the Pacific
Ocean was blocked by at least three large apartment buildings and homes.  There was nothing to
see but a garage door with peeling tan paint. The ocean was two miles away, and for some reason
he had never gotten over his fear or distaste for it to go there.  The smell was pretty bad. With the
view blocked by the fading garage door, the man could not immediately tell what others were
registering. It was morning, yet the sun was midway in the sky above the ocean.  It was rising in
the west. The neighbor’s dog moved closer and sat itself beside the man. The dog spoke, and the
man dropped his bowl.

Howls of Derisive Laughter (from Unbegun Stories)

Copyright (C) 2020, Robert B. Reeder
Slow Hedgehog Publishing

CHAPTER 20:  Howls of Derisive Laughter

Defiant, he cries out into the night.

Defianter, even, she shrieks, “Hey, give it a rest, will ya?  The kids are trying to sleep, and it’s a school night!”  She, of course, had no kids.  It was a ruse.

Less defiant, he skulks back to his living room to rethink his life.

“Not too bad,” he decides.  “Now, let’s see what’s on TV…”

The next night he turns into a werewolf, but gets beaten back to human form by an irate housewife with a broom.

The following night, defiant once again, he sits down to type out a sternly worded opinion letter of 200 words or less.  The next morning, he signs his name and places it in a stamped envelope.  In 4-5 days, it arrives across town to the office of the local classified ads in the  weekly newspaper.  It is rural Kansas, but they do have the Internet, and rather than publish his rant in the paper edition, it is placed directly into the archives of the on-line version.  Readership of the paper edition is less than 600 souls.  Perhaps 20 folks read the on-line version.  However, by chance, another equally defiant young man happens to accidentally run across the op-ed piece on-line, and he is deeply moved by what was penned.

The writing is so earnest and moving in its visceral plea for justice and action.  The reader rises up in rebellion.  He is vocal and impassioned, and thousands rally to his cause almost overnight.  The course of human history is derailed from its previous course.  The original defiant one is forgotten and trampled in the haste for action and optimistic change.  He is consigned to the annals of folklore, and becomes part of faded memories soon after the uprising is established.  The rebellion replaces the status quo and quickly becomes mainstream and oppressive in its own right.  The defiant man still can’t get the phone company to reverse the mistaken charges, and he itches like crazy every morning following the fool [sic] moon.

Feral cats dance with domesticated bears in the land of the moonswept nightscape, and he’s drinking lukewarm water straight from the faucet, with all that gunk and crust formed around the little filter screen.  He chokes a bit, and then slips on the spilled water he created through his lazy drinking habits.  The man slams a fist into the somewhat innocent kitchen cabinetry, bruising his hand.  Defiant, he cries out into the lonely night.  And it gets more lonely every night.

Tumble and Roll

Some bacteria employ an interesting method of finding nutrients.

More about that later.  More about how humanity can be viewed as a mega-organism, a colony of individual cells and organs.  More about how we form a gigantic biofilm and how mutants may arise and thrive.