His liver is in Topeka. His left and right kidneys are in Denver and Cincinnati, respectively. I get these letters from grateful parents, and I should feel some kind of closure or relief. That something good came out of all this. But I just leave the letters on Carol's nightstand and that’s that. She loves that crap. She fell asleep with a letter in her arms from a woman in Baltimore whose teen had needed a new spleen after a drunk driver had caused the first to burst. Like a balloon. I should be angry. I should be sad. Mostly I’m just tired. What’s strange is that I haven’t really cried at all. Maybe a bit when we got the news, and Carol started breaking down, and me holding her, the feeling kind of leapt from one side to the other, but apropos of nothing, I feel roughly the same feelings as before, but just less of them. I get up for work in the morning and I crawl into bed at night. Carol is still off from work. Bereavement pay. I thought I would feel something at the funeral. The man in robes said that to have and lose a child is know the highest peaks and the lowest valleys of life, and I thought to myself: where is he getting this crap? I guess that kind of trite sentimentality works for most people, but to me it just sounds hollow. My son is dead. Eventually, I too will be dead. Between now and then stretches the rest of my life, and it can be as long or as short as it needs to be. Perhaps I’ll go north. Leave the car for Carol. See how far the train will take me. He always yelped with glee at the sound of a train. Called them “choo-choos” as in “there goes the choo-choo!” And it was a real, actual, honest excitement, because he was too young to fake it. And I’m too old to feel it, or anything, and the snow has hardened to ice in the driveway, and the trash cans are overflowing, and a bird somewhere out there is calling to his companion: where are you? Where are you? Where are you?
This really blew me away. The beginning was already so strong but the story kept moving - rising. The figures of despair are so deceptively simple, so powerful: "he was too young to fake it. And I’m too old to feel it," the snow hardening to ice and the bird calling "where are you?"
As others have said, so much to love here. You have captured this feeling of not really feeling, of indecision and of unknown, so well. "Between now and then stretches the rest of my life" really nailed it for me, and the ending of course, that repeated echo of "where are you" sounding both exactly like the bird as you say, and perfectly conjuring the deeper question of this beautiful piece.
To call, or not to call, that is the question. Also, who to call. There are so many. What are the chances? Chance of what is another question. Even if you make the call, a call, because why are you calling in the first place? Maybe that should be the first priority. Why? But does that matter, considering this in the moment business. In the now you don’t ask why, you just. . . But will they get that? Hard telling until you make the call. Make the call. Make the call and the ducks will paddle in with their efficient web feet all in a row and you’ll wonder what was all that hand wringing about all those years before making the call. That is, if she answers. She might not. There are no guarantees in this life, and you might just accept things the way they are. But, do you really want to go to the grave, or beyond, wherever never having called. So simple a phone call. Nine numbers, that’s all it is. No really only a tap. Her number’s been stored in the phone for so long. Several generations of phones in phact. Like a bank balance waiting for withdrawal. She might see the name and think who’s that? Another scam. She might answer and say what’s taken you so long you goose. You think I’m going to wait forever? On the other hand she might slap a restraining order. These days you never know. One crossed eyelash and boom you’re written up in the police report. “Officers responded and found a phone but no caller after interviewing several witnesses who overheard the conversation. A rider was seen leaving town on a roan horse.” That’s only one scenario out of infinity, because that’s what you’re looking at if you make the call. It’s also what you’re looking at if you don’t make the call. Infinity either way.
To call, or not to call, that is the question.What are the chances? Chance of what is another question. Even if you make the call, a call, why are you calling in the first place? Maybe that should be the first priority. Does that matter, considering this in the moment business. In the now you don’t ask why, you just call, like this, and say, Hi, this is me calling you now.
I wonder if, from beyond the grave, the call, made or not, will be top of mind. If made, and the response wasn't friendly, what a curse to carry forever. If not made, and the response remains unknowable, what a thing to have hanging over you for eternity.
You cycle along the stretch of flat road. You're making good progress but you know up ahead you'll have to make a call. Fork left and its 20 miles, hang a right and you'll follow the coast, twice as long but a continuation of the easy route. The shorter way involves a stiff climb into the hills. You've checked the contours, it'll be a hard going up although the rewards are great vistas and a descent to the harbour town.
The pedals circle as your mind turns over the options. You're an experienced cyclist. Tell it honest, you're generally experienced, check the grey beard. So there have been lots of calls, numerous decisions, all kinds of choices. Did you make the right ones? Sometimes. Get it wrong? More than you care to remember.
That's what you're turning over–those experiences. You think about the poor calls when you avoided the problem; the rushed decisions made in a foolish instant, the easy choices that brought tough times down the line. These musings are pointers.
It's only a couple of miles to the junction, there's a hint of tiredness in your legs but you know you can shake that; more than a hint of uncertainty in your mind, can you throw that off? And in your heart? Seems you're not sure what's there.
You spot the sign ahead. You freewheel. Pretty much what you've done across the years. Then thoughts of the fresh hilltop air, the feeling of achievement at the crest, the commanding views, charge at you with a vengeance. You pick up the pace.
You're close now, you can see the road branch one way, branch the other. You angle.
You angle right, the easy route. It's nearly always been that way and you've become use to it. You continue on through the sighs and regrets.
Nice job, Terry. I really wondered what the choice would be. And that last line--I wanted to tell the character that it's okay to take the easier route today. It's not necessarily character-defining, no need to beat him/herself up. So you really created a character for me.
I can make anything that is broken, wrong, stupid . . . be fixed, be right and be smart. Because I am from Missouri.
The antidote is duct-tape and available at any gas station or five-and-dime. Or you can do what I always do and borrow from your neighbor. No one would fail to loan or give you a strip of duct-tape, or as the locals call it duck-tape. Even an enemy, a competitor in a drunken dart game at the Do-Drop-In would stop darting, run out to their red pickup and fetch you a strip or a roll of duct-tape.
‘Cept the one time it didn’t work, it didn’t mend that which was broken and no one had warned me. Not an iota or a whole roll fixed this problem. I am edging on 70 years of age, not in my prime and one would imagine I had a lot of drama in my sturdy hard-scrabble life living in overalls and work boots this whole time. That’s true. I’m not naïve, and I thought I had seen it all, done it all, been all there is to be in these rocky hills of oak and sassafras.
But you see I just woke up one August morning and he was gone. And that’s all there was to it. Not that he had been here that long. No good-bye or see you later. I am forever broken, and I will be this way forever.
PS: (in truth, I am from Nebraska or Illinois. I would never set foot in Missouri).
"I am from Nebraska or Illinois." That cracked me up. I'm trying to find a decision in this one--I guess a decision has been made to remain broken forever...?
And just to make it all weirder....now there's Gorilla Tape, which is basically a copy of duct tape but stronger, made by the company that calls itself Gorilla. How could a roll of tape get this animated?
May sits in the back seat. Anna and Leslie in front talk enough for three, so she has time to herself. She remembers her mother, sixty years ago telling her that it is better to have one friend or three friends over to play with because three together always leaves someone feeling left out. Why did she forget that?
This trip has been less than ideal. Anna and Leslie go way back and so she is not only the third wheel, but also the new wheel. She should have known when they picked her up. They pulled up in front of the house, Anna driving, Leslie sitting in the passenger seat. Anna honked the horn to summon her. Leslie waved at her through the open window and said, “The trunk’s open, put your bag in and let’s hit the road.”
There has been some good, of course. The weather’s been perfect as they’ve meandered down Highway 1. They’ve stopped at lovely overlooks. They’ve pulled over at beautiful beaches and taken long walks on the sand. They’ve had amazing meals.
But May has been lonely. She’s tired of listening to stories of Anna and Leslie’s exploits in college, their weddings, their work, their children, their divorces. She knows that they are thoughtless and graceless but not malicious. But, right now, that doesn’t help much.
Tonight, she weighs the pros and cons of cutting out once they reach their goal tomorrow, the Getty in Malibu. Once there, instead of feeling lonely while they have twosome fun, she can go off on her own. What a joy it will be to have the grounds and the art to enjoy by herself. She wonders if they will be as relieved to be rid of her as she will be to be rid of them if she tells them that she’s going to stay on in Malibu a few days and then fly home on her own. She also wonders if there is potential for a good friendship with them, together or separately, that is worth nurturing even if the cost is only one day at the Getty and two days riding home in the back seat.
In the morning, she thinks she will finish the trip. But just as they board the tram for the museum, she changes her mind. The joy she feels tells her she is right.
Good choice, May! Always listen to your gut. Did you watch this most recent season of What Lotus? This made me think of the three women, traveling together.
He'd realised he was out of phase with things when, on Good Friday afternoon, he'd headed out to get a haircut. No chance at the foot of Lazy Hill. Picciano's, his go to barber shop was shuttered.
Well the hair would have to keep until Tuesday but since he was out and about and needed Comfort he'd drop by B&M seeing no reason it wouldn't be open. Good news it was and there was plenty of Comfort on offer.
Pushing his luck he decided to swing by Screw-Fix and pick-up a fresh set of Site Socks. Good news was that the store was open. Better news was that they'd got an amazing deal on the workwear he was seeking, five pairs in a set rather than three and at a heavily discounted price to boot. Bad news was that they'd sold out in store; better news that Mel kindly checked on line to found one last set of five available over at the Lichfield branch. Bought and paid for they'd be kept ready for his collection, which would now be next Tuesday.
Heading back towards home, Lidl picked pick up some fresh bakery and salad items, he was sat at a traffic light and noticed that Frank's Place was open. He took a right as the lights changed and parked up on the parking lot back of Frank's. He'd never called in at Frank's before, which didn't mean he wasn't surprised to find that Frank had passed and it was Lorette who was running the show in the clipping joint. Slow but decent haircut, fair conversation, he left realising that he'd have a choice to make next time he needed a trim and a tidy: back to Picciano or stick with Lorette his new found personal service provider?
Nice choice to have he was thinking when he flicked the switch on the kettle. Nothing doing, time for a new one, "not before Tuesday next though" the shop manager explained "we're just closing and taking a well-deserved staff break over Easter weekend."
"Ah well, time to think about what brand of kettle I find myself in the market for. Meantime a pan of water brought to boil on the hob will do me just fine."
Like Andy Warhol said, " "I don't try to make them extraordinary. I just try to paint them ordinary-ordinary." Yours is a work of art like that, love it.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. This has nothing to do with hell and tarnation, it's just...
It's what Charlene wants me to do to prove my love. Now, I think I prove it to her pretty often, and she responds in kind, so where's the hitch? Why does she want me to do something completely off the wall like... What she wants me to do.
I could see doing something like that privately, I mean, just for the two us. Could be a gas. Could lead to fun and games, like, Charlene stands over me wearing very tight jeans... No, she's wearing nothing at all on her lower body. (Sweetheart, you look so good like that, if only you knew!) Then I get up off my belly and on to my knees and get profoundly interested in what interests me, and then she makes good tiny moves and starts screaming with pleasure and ain't it true, honey, that you're getting the proof I love you?
No?
It has to be public?
I think I get it. You don't care if half the town sees it. You want YOLANDA to see it. That's all. One dismal young lady I made the mistake of loving – I mean, of believing I loved – a year ago. Well, six months. Three. But she means nothing to me now. Nothing! You have swept in and chased her from the very small place she took up in my heart. No, I don't mean you only take up a small place in my heart, Charlene dearest. You take up so much. How much? Well, everything. Sometimes I feel my heart will burst it's so full of you!
What? No, of course I'm not making out you're overweight! How could I? You're just perfect as you are – no, scratch the "as you are". You're perfect, that's all!
Now what? In front of the diner where Yolanda shows her big tits when she's leaning down to serve extra coffee? Right away? Now? On my knees? No, flat on my face kissing your shoes?
Hmmm. Think I'll pass.
In fact, think I'll go down there and get some coffee and stare at Yolanda's tits. It turns her on, I know it does.
"One dismal young lady I made the mistake of loving – I mean, of believing I loved – a year ago. Well, six months. Three. But she means nothing to me now. Nothing! "These lines are terrific. I love it!
I was driving home from New London to Danbury, a long-ass work commute especially compared to Stamford or even New York City. I was probably thinking how much I hated the trivial work I was doing at this world-class pharmaceutical company, when my cell phone rang.
They called to tell me my contract had been cut short and I could pick up my jacket at the guard station when I dropped off my security card. I thought, the jacket’s not worth the drive and in the instant I heard the call disconnect, I decided to move back across the country to Seattle. I was 57 years old, an almost unemployable age in my line of work. If there was some thought process involved, I don’t remember it. I worked another 13 years at the three of the best jobs I’d ever had.
I think we often know beneath our own awareness what it is that we need or want but for whatever reason it takes some outside event to open our eyes and set us into motion. That jolt, in whatever form it comes, is a gift.
Always happens. I’m finally snuggled in. Camping mat inflated just the way I like it, my favorite pillow, the campground has quieted beyond a couple of loud guffaws nearby, quickly shushed, the sizzle, pop, sputter of campfires, murmured conversations, and–the sonorous lullaby of ocean waves in rhythm just beyond the tall sand dune. I close my eyes and–
“Zing!”
No. I’ll ignore it. Get up later. If I just roll over and listen to the waves–
“Zang!”
Ok, I’ll roll to my left side. Ah. Much better.
“You always think that works. ZONG! Final warning!”
Oh. Hell.
I sit up, grab my sweatpants, which means a struggle to fit each leg into them and then try to stand up–
“You always do that. Don’t forget your head lamp! Hurry before I–”
Ok, ok, I’m up. Zzzzzipppppp! And I’m–
“Look out for that–”
ARGHH! Why did he put the guy line there? Appropriate name, by the way: “Guy line.”
“Well, I warned you. And you better hurry. What were you thinking, having that 2nd beer around the campfire?”
I’m on vacation; Leave me alone.
“We are on vacation, and it’s not like you can just slip out of bed and walk 20 feet…”
I hum to drown that pesky inner voice. “The long and winding road…” as my headlamp illuminates the hazards along the pathway. That root that sticks out, just–ouch!--found it. I scuttle along, then I’m bombarded with bright lights, someone brushing her teeth at the communal sink (ew…avoid that sink), a child refusing to sit on the cold porcelain, a desperate mother coaxing them, and I claim a stall.
Outside, I take a right turn, instead of left and tramp past RVs, dying campfires, two people setting up their tent in the darkness, a heated argument in one campsite. A child wails–piercing the air with worries about the dark. At the top of the dune I gaze at the endless waves beyond me and the wonder overhead. That canopy of lights, and the moon shimmering between two layers of cloud.
I slip through the shadows and back to camp. Struggle with the zip, flop back into my bag. A dog barks somewhere across the campground. The ocean song refills my ears. And–
In the end, they were mostly interchangeable. But she didn’t see that then. Then, there was a dinner table, the new man, an aspiring politician courting the Chicano vote, invited to meet her father. The roses that had been delivered that afternoon perched prettily on the table. The card had been blank. Had he sent them? Why leave her in suspense?
Doorbell. “Hiya hon,” an old lover returned from lifting art in Turkey, or so he said. He acted like a five-year-old, like the world was overwhelmed with gratitude to welcome him, wanted to kill the fatted calf. “What’s for dinner?” Unsurprised to see new man. Didn’t seem to care, so sure was he of his superiority. So, they sat, the four of them. Her father was drunk, mostly always drunk. She didn’t see the need to choose. One upmanship, an inexhaustible game as their stories mounted in intensity. Pampas. Foreign prisons. Their pasts.
The new one was a charmer, could belt out songs by Carol King, slow dance at the bar as if there was no one watching. A romantic. The old one had traveled the world with $20 in his pocket, a fuck you to his dad, or so he said. An adventurer.
She knew she’d have to choose. Maybe one of them would make it easy, push back from the table, leave her to the last man standing. She decided. Tonight was not a night for decisions. She rose, said goodnight and went to her bedroom, where she fell asleep to the raucous laughter of three drunk men, for whom she had become irrelevant, the roses wilting on the table.
“Who cares?” he wrote in response to her message about the death of the Pope.
The streets were bustling that day, the jumble of the city at its booming normalcy showing no reverence to the deceased leader of the Vatican. Mark, John, or Ethan, whoever you might want to call this character, looked down from his fourth, fifth, or maybe sixth-floor window, making you think this was one of those brown-tiled New York City apartment buildings with fire escapes zigzagging the sides like a giant mural of Nokia Snake. Her attempts to get him outside reeked of desperation. He was a mouse who had trapped himself to avoid being trapped. Why couldn’t she see it?
Today, there was no cigarette smoke curling out the window beside him. Instead, he was vaping the gasoline fumes puffed into the air by cars below. Looking outside, he realized he had written a similar story before, about a character in a NYC apartment staring at his ceiling, wondering about life. The writer in him had never lived in New York, only seen it in TV shows and movies, read about it in books and magazines, recycling other people’s ideas of a city that didn’t exist. He called this process “regurgitating,” like some pompous prick lacking even basic self-awareness.
He imagined lifting the hammer of the trap from his neck, walking through the door, and seeing the world at ground level. The instant he gave way to these thoughts, he felt the pressure, saw the perils of the street and its people, and, more importantly, saw himself the way he had seen himself on numerous days in the dark. He saw the scared little mouse who was nothing but an obstacle in the way of people with a purpose. Ordinary people with somewhere to be.
So he shut the window, closed the curtains, laid down on his bed, and decided that tomorrow he would try again. Because unlike the Pope, he still had a chance, even if it hurt.
One day in the cafeteria I saw a new student, probably in the 11th grade. He had light brown hair, deep blue eyes, Florentine cheekbones and a definite swagger. Over time I realized that he was a recent Italian immigrant. I don’t know how I found out his name, but I remember it was Dominic.
Dominic was the most striking creature I’d ever seen, and took my breath away. And he’ll never know the effect he had on my life.
Every night I would do what 14-year-old boys do before they go to sleep, but I wouldn’t let Dominic creep into those fantasies – he was sacred, somehow, too stunning to be sullied by my base desires. And every night, post-orgasm, I would immediately start in on my ritual of psychological self-flagellation. Tomorrow, I vowed, I would only be attracted to girls for the rest of my life. And I really meant it this time. (Lather, rinse, repeat.)
And then one night, this boy who haunted my daytime thoughts penetrated my carnal ones as well. But for the first time, when it was over, I simply couldn’t muster the energy for my self-denunciatory routine. Because that would have meant also denouncing my attraction to Dominic, and that felt like a sin to me. In fact, wanting Dominic seemed to me like the only sane reaction to such beauty, there could be nothing ugly about it. I was also sick of failing over and over, always waking up every morning with the same lustful thoughts of pectorals and biceps, accompanied by the same morning erection.
But my surrender to reality was also a decision. That night I put down the bat I was beating myself with, walked it quietly into the closet as I dreamt, then closed the door behind me and locked it. Best sleep I ever had.
One pull of the thread was all it took to unravel the tapestry of self-loathing. For if I could allow myself an attraction to Dominic, then why not to anybody else? In fact, I couldn’t find any logical reason to object to anything two consenting adults did with each other.
There was no revival of any debate on the topic after that night. Of which I’m glad, but not unambiguously, for my determined acceleration into a very adult world at the tender age of 16 proved extremely consequential, to put it mildly.
There I was, standing beside my 6-year-old son, watching him try to decide which toy to buy.
Making decisions is hard sometimes—no matter what the decision is about. It could be something seemingly small like what to eat or what to wear, or something huge like what career to pursue, whether to buy a house, or even whether to have children.
My son struggles with decisions from time to time, and, as you can probably guess, it can be frustrating for me. I even find myself getting annoyed. Why does this need so much thought? It’s just a toy! Just a meal! Just a cartoon!
And then, while he was deep in thought, weighing his options, he looked up and asked me,
“Which one would you choose if you were me?”
That’s the one question I hate the most. It always sounds like indecisiveness, and worse—it makes me feel like I’m failing as a parent.
I’ve always disliked the phrase “It doesn’t matter to me,” because let’s be honest—it does. Even if it’s just a tiny preference, we all lean one way or another.
So, I told him gently, “This is your decision to make. Pick whichever one you like—I won’t choose for you.”
He paused, then asked,
“But… how will I know which one to choose?”
And in that moment, it hit me. Making decisions is hard—especially when you haven’t yet developed the tools to make them. We all make choices through filters we’ve built over time: experiences, values, desires, fears.
That’s how we get to know each other too—not just by the decisions people make, but by understanding the filters behind them. That’s why we can stand by people who sometimes make questionable choices—because we understand why they made them. And it’s also why we might feel distant from others who always seem to do the “right” thing—if their filters don’t align with ours.
We grow when our filters are challenged, and we feel a deeper connection with people who help us make sense of them.
My son couldn’t choose a toy because he hasn’t yet discovered his own filters.
And that’s when I realized my job isn’t to choose for him—but to guide him in discovering those filters. What a late but powerful revelation.
So, I knelt down and asked him,
“What are you looking for in a toy? Fun? Excitement? Something new? Something familiar?”
We began exploring the options together—not to make the choice for him, but to help him learn how to choose.
That day, I made one of the hardest decisions of my life: to let go of control, and accept the deeper truth—behind every choice, there’s a filter.
The sun was low in the sky as we drove up into the Maures. My friend Jean was driving. We had an appointment at 5:30 in La Garde-Freinet to buy a pair of bedside tables. The trip was supposed to take about 45 minutes. The roads got narrower the farther up we went. Once when we missed a turn, the GPS directed us to make a U-turn and then take the next right. Farther on a sign said “private property” but there was no other way so we continued our long slow climb followed by a winding descent, a rocky slope on one side of the car, a ravine on the other. I held on to my seat back every time I dared to look out the window.
On the way, we passed a Range Rover turning around but we didn’t think anything of it. The GPS.said our destination was within reach.
Suddenly in the twilight, a barrier worthy of a high security prison rose up in front of us, barring the way.
We could barely make out, about 20 meters ahead, the road we were supposed to take, the road the GPS was showing us. On a pole beside the gate was a digital grid. We tried a few passwords in desperation but the gate didn’t budge. We looked around for a bell to ring, someone to call, maybe a guard to whom we could put our case. We yelled. No one.
No way the car could make it around that gate, and without the car, supposing that we were ready to climb over the barrier and try our luck on foot, well, on a dark moonless night, you can imagine.
Jean tried maneuvering the car into a u-turn, but the road was too narrow, the car too long. Backing up wasn’t any better: after he had with much difficulty negotiated about fifty meters in reverse, the clutch began coughing. It wouldn't hold out long enough to make it back to the main road. Were we going to have to spend the night here? Would we even make it through the night? We had no blankets, no food or water.
I told him we’d better turn off the lights if we didn’t want to wear out the battery. It was getting colder so he turned the key. But we couldn’t keep the motor running all night either. I thought of calling the cops, but he said why not call the guy we were supposed to meet.
The newly hired groundskeeper of a neighboring estate, he was in the process of moving in. The properties up here were all summer residences, he told us. No one around now. The police never ventured up here in winter. Most of the roads were private and it was the responsibility of the owners to maintain them. After a long wait he appeared in person to help us. He disappeared again to make a call. (No cell reception here.) At this point our decision rested with him.
Oh, my god. This is so tense! (Also, nice to see you here again, Karen!) I don't know if you've ever watched The Office, but your piece reminded me of this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOW_kPzY_JY
Thank you Mary, I'll check that out! I began to write this in response to another of your prompts a while back, but didn't have time to finish it before the next prompt came around...
Time loop fragment #12. [the scene in the museum referred to hasn’t yet been written]
You run out the museum door yelling “Help,” but your cries go unheard. You turn to the right, walk past several storefronts before you find the green door leading to the time-keeper’s office. At the top of the staircase, his door is open. You walk into the small room, no bigger than a closet and sit in the empty chair facing the time-keeper’s desk. The clock on the wall above the time-keeper’s desk has no hands with which to drive time forward. Time remains at a standstill, for you that is. Whereas other people go about their day as if whatever they do matters, counts for something, you always return to the bookstore to wait for Lisa who never appears.
How can a clock count the seconds, minutes, and hours with no hands? Does this mean that the middle sister of the Moirai, the Allotter, who carries the measuring rod has stopped measuring your life thread? Is your fate held at this indecisive moment until Lisa comes as she said she would?
You make excuses for her, say Lisa is always late and you are always early, she will soon be coming. She always shows up, you say. You consider the masks and heads you saw in the museum and the Sphinx, handless as the clock, and consider the length of time humanity has moved forward from its past, when people kept time by the rising and setting of the sun and moon. But now that time is measured by atomic clocks, we are enslaved by time: The beginning and end of work days, vacations, the hour of the start of the puppet performance that you and Lisa plan to see, as soon as she arrives, all are numbered from 1 to 12 on clocks.
Do you want the time-keeper to put the hands back on the clock? Once he arrives you must decide, for he will ask you whether it is time to set the alarm. You don’t want to be an alarmist, but you have heard people warning us, telling us that we are at an inflection point, messaging us loud and clear, saying that we are running out of time, Do not make the mistake of assuming you still have time. But for as long as time never moves forward for you, you will never age, never get old, the Allotter will never determine the length of your life thread and the third sister will wait and wait and wait with her knife in hand until time has run out for you, and the Allotter says, “Cut.”
Have you read On the Calculation of Volumeby Solvej Balle? Hers is another time loop story, but in hers, everyone else is caught in the loop and she's the only one who ages, and for whom time moves forward. I read the the first two 'volumes' and now eagerly await the third to be translated and published.
Mary! A return of a favorite prompt from last year. Last time, I wrote about a woman who takes a wrong turn, gets chased by a cop and nagged by Siri, and ends up doing a "Thelma and Louise."
His liver is in Topeka. His left and right kidneys are in Denver and Cincinnati, respectively. I get these letters from grateful parents, and I should feel some kind of closure or relief. That something good came out of all this. But I just leave the letters on Carol's nightstand and that’s that. She loves that crap. She fell asleep with a letter in her arms from a woman in Baltimore whose teen had needed a new spleen after a drunk driver had caused the first to burst. Like a balloon. I should be angry. I should be sad. Mostly I’m just tired. What’s strange is that I haven’t really cried at all. Maybe a bit when we got the news, and Carol started breaking down, and me holding her, the feeling kind of leapt from one side to the other, but apropos of nothing, I feel roughly the same feelings as before, but just less of them. I get up for work in the morning and I crawl into bed at night. Carol is still off from work. Bereavement pay. I thought I would feel something at the funeral. The man in robes said that to have and lose a child is know the highest peaks and the lowest valleys of life, and I thought to myself: where is he getting this crap? I guess that kind of trite sentimentality works for most people, but to me it just sounds hollow. My son is dead. Eventually, I too will be dead. Between now and then stretches the rest of my life, and it can be as long or as short as it needs to be. Perhaps I’ll go north. Leave the car for Carol. See how far the train will take me. He always yelped with glee at the sound of a train. Called them “choo-choos” as in “there goes the choo-choo!” And it was a real, actual, honest excitement, because he was too young to fake it. And I’m too old to feel it, or anything, and the snow has hardened to ice in the driveway, and the trash cans are overflowing, and a bird somewhere out there is calling to his companion: where are you? Where are you? Where are you?
My God this is so incredible. I also felt very numb today but now I'm crying. What a beautiful piece of writing this is. You just slayed me.
William. Devastating. And wonderful writing.
Damn, this is good. You really got to me with this William.
well told story
where are you? where are you?
Yeah. Those final lines--agonizing.
This really blew me away. The beginning was already so strong but the story kept moving - rising. The figures of despair are so deceptively simple, so powerful: "he was too young to fake it. And I’m too old to feel it," the snow hardening to ice and the bird calling "where are you?"
"And it was a real, honest excitement, because he was too young to fake it." Beautiful insight beautifully written.
Whoah, what an unusual, devastating way to launch into this story... the whole thing, and then the end... so, so beautiful, and effective.
Golly, this is good, William. I was drawn in and then there with the speaker and his wife. Gorgeous and so very real.
As others have said, so much to love here. You have captured this feeling of not really feeling, of indecision and of unknown, so well. "Between now and then stretches the rest of my life" really nailed it for me, and the ending of course, that repeated echo of "where are you" sounding both exactly like the bird as you say, and perfectly conjuring the deeper question of this beautiful piece.
I feel privileged to be allowed into the world of this story.
Great piece, William.
This one pierced me. So well written.
To call, or not to call, that is the question. Also, who to call. There are so many. What are the chances? Chance of what is another question. Even if you make the call, a call, because why are you calling in the first place? Maybe that should be the first priority. Why? But does that matter, considering this in the moment business. In the now you don’t ask why, you just. . . But will they get that? Hard telling until you make the call. Make the call. Make the call and the ducks will paddle in with their efficient web feet all in a row and you’ll wonder what was all that hand wringing about all those years before making the call. That is, if she answers. She might not. There are no guarantees in this life, and you might just accept things the way they are. But, do you really want to go to the grave, or beyond, wherever never having called. So simple a phone call. Nine numbers, that’s all it is. No really only a tap. Her number’s been stored in the phone for so long. Several generations of phones in phact. Like a bank balance waiting for withdrawal. She might see the name and think who’s that? Another scam. She might answer and say what’s taken you so long you goose. You think I’m going to wait forever? On the other hand she might slap a restraining order. These days you never know. One crossed eyelash and boom you’re written up in the police report. “Officers responded and found a phone but no caller after interviewing several witnesses who overheard the conversation. A rider was seen leaving town on a roan horse.” That’s only one scenario out of infinity, because that’s what you’re looking at if you make the call. It’s also what you’re looking at if you don’t make the call. Infinity either way.
To call, or not to call, that is the question.What are the chances? Chance of what is another question. Even if you make the call, a call, why are you calling in the first place? Maybe that should be the first priority. Does that matter, considering this in the moment business. In the now you don’t ask why, you just call, like this, and say, Hi, this is me calling you now.
Love this. Decision made!
Good luck with the call, Tod.
John!!!
John!!! It's fiction. But that doesn't change anything does it.
I thought the fourth wall had disappeared with Tristram Shandy...
Well I didn't know that, John, never having received a proper education in English. ;)
You called and left a message at the wrong number! :)
lol
I wonder if, from beyond the grave, the call, made or not, will be top of mind. If made, and the response wasn't friendly, what a curse to carry forever. If not made, and the response remains unknowable, what a thing to have hanging over you for eternity.
Sounds like a win win.
This line: "Like a bank balance waiting for withdrawal." So good!
You have captured the agony of decision-making perfectly. Well done!
Wonderful. This has a good musical pace to it, like it could be a song, too.
I like the black humor: all it takes is one crossed eyelash !
A road horse, hunh? You always still a nifty detail in, don't you?
You cycle along the stretch of flat road. You're making good progress but you know up ahead you'll have to make a call. Fork left and its 20 miles, hang a right and you'll follow the coast, twice as long but a continuation of the easy route. The shorter way involves a stiff climb into the hills. You've checked the contours, it'll be a hard going up although the rewards are great vistas and a descent to the harbour town.
The pedals circle as your mind turns over the options. You're an experienced cyclist. Tell it honest, you're generally experienced, check the grey beard. So there have been lots of calls, numerous decisions, all kinds of choices. Did you make the right ones? Sometimes. Get it wrong? More than you care to remember.
That's what you're turning over–those experiences. You think about the poor calls when you avoided the problem; the rushed decisions made in a foolish instant, the easy choices that brought tough times down the line. These musings are pointers.
It's only a couple of miles to the junction, there's a hint of tiredness in your legs but you know you can shake that; more than a hint of uncertainty in your mind, can you throw that off? And in your heart? Seems you're not sure what's there.
You spot the sign ahead. You freewheel. Pretty much what you've done across the years. Then thoughts of the fresh hilltop air, the feeling of achievement at the crest, the commanding views, charge at you with a vengeance. You pick up the pace.
You're close now, you can see the road branch one way, branch the other. You angle.
You angle right, the easy route. It's nearly always been that way and you've become use to it. You continue on through the sighs and regrets.
Nice job, Terry. I really wondered what the choice would be. And that last line--I wanted to tell the character that it's okay to take the easier route today. It's not necessarily character-defining, no need to beat him/herself up. So you really created a character for me.
Thanks, Mary
I liked that bike kind of stream of consciousness so different from walking or driving.
Thanks, Charlie
Love the last minute decision and the self-realization that comes with it. Nicely done.
Thanks, Angela
Yes, the easy route...except that one time when you almost crashed going the hard way!
I can make anything that is broken, wrong, stupid . . . be fixed, be right and be smart. Because I am from Missouri.
The antidote is duct-tape and available at any gas station or five-and-dime. Or you can do what I always do and borrow from your neighbor. No one would fail to loan or give you a strip of duct-tape, or as the locals call it duck-tape. Even an enemy, a competitor in a drunken dart game at the Do-Drop-In would stop darting, run out to their red pickup and fetch you a strip or a roll of duct-tape.
‘Cept the one time it didn’t work, it didn’t mend that which was broken and no one had warned me. Not an iota or a whole roll fixed this problem. I am edging on 70 years of age, not in my prime and one would imagine I had a lot of drama in my sturdy hard-scrabble life living in overalls and work boots this whole time. That’s true. I’m not naïve, and I thought I had seen it all, done it all, been all there is to be in these rocky hills of oak and sassafras.
But you see I just woke up one August morning and he was gone. And that’s all there was to it. Not that he had been here that long. No good-bye or see you later. I am forever broken, and I will be this way forever.
PS: (in truth, I am from Nebraska or Illinois. I would never set foot in Missouri).
"I am from Nebraska or Illinois." That cracked me up. I'm trying to find a decision in this one--I guess a decision has been made to remain broken forever...?
Yes, I think I somewhat, somehow, in the shadow of my words or perhaps their echo I implied that I will be broken forever.
I realized when I finished writing that I wrote but didn't really respond to the prompt. . . also I hope someday to write a response with dialogue!
It's okay to not write to the prompt!
Now you tell me!
ha!
Somewhere along the line she decided never to set foot in Missouri.
Good point!
that could be true
I called it duck tape for the longest time! Wonderful shape to this story, the end is a surprise and so well done.
And who would try to fix you with duck tape?
Probably Steve. Or green masking tape.
someone who was out of baling wire
Ooh!
No one with duck tape. Maybe someone with duct tape.
Occasionally still, duct tape is used to seal ducts, believe it or not.
Have you ever seen duct tape sold under the brand name of DUCK tape? I used to have some, now I can't find it anywhere.
Well, Amazon has it. Your choice if you want to send Bezos your moolah.
(I deleted the link....)
I've reduced my orders on Amazon only to Kindle, because I can't do without that to get English-language books quickly. Buck Fezos.
And just to make it all weirder....now there's Gorilla Tape, which is basically a copy of duct tape but stronger, made by the company that calls itself Gorilla. How could a roll of tape get this animated?
seal them so they never quack again
May sits in the back seat. Anna and Leslie in front talk enough for three, so she has time to herself. She remembers her mother, sixty years ago telling her that it is better to have one friend or three friends over to play with because three together always leaves someone feeling left out. Why did she forget that?
This trip has been less than ideal. Anna and Leslie go way back and so she is not only the third wheel, but also the new wheel. She should have known when they picked her up. They pulled up in front of the house, Anna driving, Leslie sitting in the passenger seat. Anna honked the horn to summon her. Leslie waved at her through the open window and said, “The trunk’s open, put your bag in and let’s hit the road.”
There has been some good, of course. The weather’s been perfect as they’ve meandered down Highway 1. They’ve stopped at lovely overlooks. They’ve pulled over at beautiful beaches and taken long walks on the sand. They’ve had amazing meals.
But May has been lonely. She’s tired of listening to stories of Anna and Leslie’s exploits in college, their weddings, their work, their children, their divorces. She knows that they are thoughtless and graceless but not malicious. But, right now, that doesn’t help much.
Tonight, she weighs the pros and cons of cutting out once they reach their goal tomorrow, the Getty in Malibu. Once there, instead of feeling lonely while they have twosome fun, she can go off on her own. What a joy it will be to have the grounds and the art to enjoy by herself. She wonders if they will be as relieved to be rid of her as she will be to be rid of them if she tells them that she’s going to stay on in Malibu a few days and then fly home on her own. She also wonders if there is potential for a good friendship with them, together or separately, that is worth nurturing even if the cost is only one day at the Getty and two days riding home in the back seat.
In the morning, she thinks she will finish the trip. But just as they board the tram for the museum, she changes her mind. The joy she feels tells her she is right.
Good choice, May! Always listen to your gut. Did you watch this most recent season of What Lotus? This made me think of the three women, traveling together.
I haven't watched White Lotus. I'll have to give it a look.
You may hate it! Just a warning. (Many people loved it. I didn't care for this latest season overall.)
Your opening "May sits in the back seat. Anna and Leslie in front talk enough for three...." was a wonderful opening.
I was hoping she'd make that decision! Go, May!
He'd realised he was out of phase with things when, on Good Friday afternoon, he'd headed out to get a haircut. No chance at the foot of Lazy Hill. Picciano's, his go to barber shop was shuttered.
Well the hair would have to keep until Tuesday but since he was out and about and needed Comfort he'd drop by B&M seeing no reason it wouldn't be open. Good news it was and there was plenty of Comfort on offer.
Pushing his luck he decided to swing by Screw-Fix and pick-up a fresh set of Site Socks. Good news was that the store was open. Better news was that they'd got an amazing deal on the workwear he was seeking, five pairs in a set rather than three and at a heavily discounted price to boot. Bad news was that they'd sold out in store; better news that Mel kindly checked on line to found one last set of five available over at the Lichfield branch. Bought and paid for they'd be kept ready for his collection, which would now be next Tuesday.
Heading back towards home, Lidl picked pick up some fresh bakery and salad items, he was sat at a traffic light and noticed that Frank's Place was open. He took a right as the lights changed and parked up on the parking lot back of Frank's. He'd never called in at Frank's before, which didn't mean he wasn't surprised to find that Frank had passed and it was Lorette who was running the show in the clipping joint. Slow but decent haircut, fair conversation, he left realising that he'd have a choice to make next time he needed a trim and a tidy: back to Picciano or stick with Lorette his new found personal service provider?
Nice choice to have he was thinking when he flicked the switch on the kettle. Nothing doing, time for a new one, "not before Tuesday next though" the shop manager explained "we're just closing and taking a well-deserved staff break over Easter weekend."
"Ah well, time to think about what brand of kettle I find myself in the market for. Meantime a pan of water brought to boil on the hob will do me just fine."
Love this, Rob. I can really feel this character. You should keep going with him, see where it leads!
Like Andy Warhol said, " "I don't try to make them extraordinary. I just try to paint them ordinary-ordinary." Yours is a work of art like that, love it.
Wow. So many small, everyday choices here. Feels so real.
Nice pace of life, around that old hob.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. This has nothing to do with hell and tarnation, it's just...
It's what Charlene wants me to do to prove my love. Now, I think I prove it to her pretty often, and she responds in kind, so where's the hitch? Why does she want me to do something completely off the wall like... What she wants me to do.
I could see doing something like that privately, I mean, just for the two us. Could be a gas. Could lead to fun and games, like, Charlene stands over me wearing very tight jeans... No, she's wearing nothing at all on her lower body. (Sweetheart, you look so good like that, if only you knew!) Then I get up off my belly and on to my knees and get profoundly interested in what interests me, and then she makes good tiny moves and starts screaming with pleasure and ain't it true, honey, that you're getting the proof I love you?
No?
It has to be public?
I think I get it. You don't care if half the town sees it. You want YOLANDA to see it. That's all. One dismal young lady I made the mistake of loving – I mean, of believing I loved – a year ago. Well, six months. Three. But she means nothing to me now. Nothing! You have swept in and chased her from the very small place she took up in my heart. No, I don't mean you only take up a small place in my heart, Charlene dearest. You take up so much. How much? Well, everything. Sometimes I feel my heart will burst it's so full of you!
What? No, of course I'm not making out you're overweight! How could I? You're just perfect as you are – no, scratch the "as you are". You're perfect, that's all!
Now what? In front of the diner where Yolanda shows her big tits when she's leaning down to serve extra coffee? Right away? Now? On my knees? No, flat on my face kissing your shoes?
Hmmm. Think I'll pass.
In fact, think I'll go down there and get some coffee and stare at Yolanda's tits. It turns her on, I know it does.
oh my god, I laughed out loud.
me too!
"One dismal young lady I made the mistake of loving – I mean, of believing I loved – a year ago. Well, six months. Three. But she means nothing to me now. Nothing! "These lines are terrific. I love it!
Thank you, Christine. I hasten to distance myself from the dismal young man I was channeling. Though I suppose I did invent him. :(
So much in these lines: "a year ago. Well, six months. Three." Well done!
Love this story. I laughed out loud as well.
What great characters !
Thanks for the prompt, Mary.
I was driving home from New London to Danbury, a long-ass work commute especially compared to Stamford or even New York City. I was probably thinking how much I hated the trivial work I was doing at this world-class pharmaceutical company, when my cell phone rang.
They called to tell me my contract had been cut short and I could pick up my jacket at the guard station when I dropped off my security card. I thought, the jacket’s not worth the drive and in the instant I heard the call disconnect, I decided to move back across the country to Seattle. I was 57 years old, an almost unemployable age in my line of work. If there was some thought process involved, I don’t remember it. I worked another 13 years at the three of the best jobs I’d ever had.
Love this!!!!
I think we often know beneath our own awareness what it is that we need or want but for whatever reason it takes some outside event to open our eyes and set us into motion. That jolt, in whatever form it comes, is a gift.
Great decision!
Always happens. I’m finally snuggled in. Camping mat inflated just the way I like it, my favorite pillow, the campground has quieted beyond a couple of loud guffaws nearby, quickly shushed, the sizzle, pop, sputter of campfires, murmured conversations, and–the sonorous lullaby of ocean waves in rhythm just beyond the tall sand dune. I close my eyes and–
“Zing!”
No. I’ll ignore it. Get up later. If I just roll over and listen to the waves–
“Zang!”
Ok, I’ll roll to my left side. Ah. Much better.
“You always think that works. ZONG! Final warning!”
Oh. Hell.
I sit up, grab my sweatpants, which means a struggle to fit each leg into them and then try to stand up–
“You always do that. Don’t forget your head lamp! Hurry before I–”
Ok, ok, I’m up. Zzzzzipppppp! And I’m–
“Look out for that–”
ARGHH! Why did he put the guy line there? Appropriate name, by the way: “Guy line.”
“Well, I warned you. And you better hurry. What were you thinking, having that 2nd beer around the campfire?”
I’m on vacation; Leave me alone.
“We are on vacation, and it’s not like you can just slip out of bed and walk 20 feet…”
I hum to drown that pesky inner voice. “The long and winding road…” as my headlamp illuminates the hazards along the pathway. That root that sticks out, just–ouch!--found it. I scuttle along, then I’m bombarded with bright lights, someone brushing her teeth at the communal sink (ew…avoid that sink), a child refusing to sit on the cold porcelain, a desperate mother coaxing them, and I claim a stall.
Outside, I take a right turn, instead of left and tramp past RVs, dying campfires, two people setting up their tent in the darkness, a heated argument in one campsite. A child wails–piercing the air with worries about the dark. At the top of the dune I gaze at the endless waves beyond me and the wonder overhead. That canopy of lights, and the moon shimmering between two layers of cloud.
I slip through the shadows and back to camp. Struggle with the zip, flop back into my bag. A dog barks somewhere across the campground. The ocean song refills my ears. And–
“ZHANG!”
Oh God. Again?
“Well, I warned you…”
Hahahhaha! Isn't that always the case???
In the end, they were mostly interchangeable. But she didn’t see that then. Then, there was a dinner table, the new man, an aspiring politician courting the Chicano vote, invited to meet her father. The roses that had been delivered that afternoon perched prettily on the table. The card had been blank. Had he sent them? Why leave her in suspense?
Doorbell. “Hiya hon,” an old lover returned from lifting art in Turkey, or so he said. He acted like a five-year-old, like the world was overwhelmed with gratitude to welcome him, wanted to kill the fatted calf. “What’s for dinner?” Unsurprised to see new man. Didn’t seem to care, so sure was he of his superiority. So, they sat, the four of them. Her father was drunk, mostly always drunk. She didn’t see the need to choose. One upmanship, an inexhaustible game as their stories mounted in intensity. Pampas. Foreign prisons. Their pasts.
The new one was a charmer, could belt out songs by Carol King, slow dance at the bar as if there was no one watching. A romantic. The old one had traveled the world with $20 in his pocket, a fuck you to his dad, or so he said. An adventurer.
She knew she’d have to choose. Maybe one of them would make it easy, push back from the table, leave her to the last man standing. She decided. Tonight was not a night for decisions. She rose, said goodnight and went to her bedroom, where she fell asleep to the raucous laughter of three drunk men, for whom she had become irrelevant, the roses wilting on the table.
Well done! And I'd say she DID make a decision: to leave.
‘roses wilting on the table’ 👏
The Distance to the Door
“Who cares?” he wrote in response to her message about the death of the Pope.
The streets were bustling that day, the jumble of the city at its booming normalcy showing no reverence to the deceased leader of the Vatican. Mark, John, or Ethan, whoever you might want to call this character, looked down from his fourth, fifth, or maybe sixth-floor window, making you think this was one of those brown-tiled New York City apartment buildings with fire escapes zigzagging the sides like a giant mural of Nokia Snake. Her attempts to get him outside reeked of desperation. He was a mouse who had trapped himself to avoid being trapped. Why couldn’t she see it?
Today, there was no cigarette smoke curling out the window beside him. Instead, he was vaping the gasoline fumes puffed into the air by cars below. Looking outside, he realized he had written a similar story before, about a character in a NYC apartment staring at his ceiling, wondering about life. The writer in him had never lived in New York, only seen it in TV shows and movies, read about it in books and magazines, recycling other people’s ideas of a city that didn’t exist. He called this process “regurgitating,” like some pompous prick lacking even basic self-awareness.
He imagined lifting the hammer of the trap from his neck, walking through the door, and seeing the world at ground level. The instant he gave way to these thoughts, he felt the pressure, saw the perils of the street and its people, and, more importantly, saw himself the way he had seen himself on numerous days in the dark. He saw the scared little mouse who was nothing but an obstacle in the way of people with a purpose. Ordinary people with somewhere to be.
So he shut the window, closed the curtains, laid down on his bed, and decided that tomorrow he would try again. Because unlike the Pope, he still had a chance, even if it hurt.
This is a sad one. I hope this character makes a different decision tomorrow.
One day in the cafeteria I saw a new student, probably in the 11th grade. He had light brown hair, deep blue eyes, Florentine cheekbones and a definite swagger. Over time I realized that he was a recent Italian immigrant. I don’t know how I found out his name, but I remember it was Dominic.
Dominic was the most striking creature I’d ever seen, and took my breath away. And he’ll never know the effect he had on my life.
Every night I would do what 14-year-old boys do before they go to sleep, but I wouldn’t let Dominic creep into those fantasies – he was sacred, somehow, too stunning to be sullied by my base desires. And every night, post-orgasm, I would immediately start in on my ritual of psychological self-flagellation. Tomorrow, I vowed, I would only be attracted to girls for the rest of my life. And I really meant it this time. (Lather, rinse, repeat.)
And then one night, this boy who haunted my daytime thoughts penetrated my carnal ones as well. But for the first time, when it was over, I simply couldn’t muster the energy for my self-denunciatory routine. Because that would have meant also denouncing my attraction to Dominic, and that felt like a sin to me. In fact, wanting Dominic seemed to me like the only sane reaction to such beauty, there could be nothing ugly about it. I was also sick of failing over and over, always waking up every morning with the same lustful thoughts of pectorals and biceps, accompanied by the same morning erection.
But my surrender to reality was also a decision. That night I put down the bat I was beating myself with, walked it quietly into the closet as I dreamt, then closed the door behind me and locked it. Best sleep I ever had.
One pull of the thread was all it took to unravel the tapestry of self-loathing. For if I could allow myself an attraction to Dominic, then why not to anybody else? In fact, I couldn’t find any logical reason to object to anything two consenting adults did with each other.
There was no revival of any debate on the topic after that night. Of which I’m glad, but not unambiguously, for my determined acceleration into a very adult world at the tender age of 16 proved extremely consequential, to put it mildly.
Love the way this leads to more, leaving us wondering what other stories lie in wait.
For the curious, one of the stories that lie in wait.
https://open.substack.com/pub/markolmsted/p/the-beautiful-man-on-charles-street
There I was, standing beside my 6-year-old son, watching him try to decide which toy to buy.
Making decisions is hard sometimes—no matter what the decision is about. It could be something seemingly small like what to eat or what to wear, or something huge like what career to pursue, whether to buy a house, or even whether to have children.
My son struggles with decisions from time to time, and, as you can probably guess, it can be frustrating for me. I even find myself getting annoyed. Why does this need so much thought? It’s just a toy! Just a meal! Just a cartoon!
And then, while he was deep in thought, weighing his options, he looked up and asked me,
“Which one would you choose if you were me?”
That’s the one question I hate the most. It always sounds like indecisiveness, and worse—it makes me feel like I’m failing as a parent.
I’ve always disliked the phrase “It doesn’t matter to me,” because let’s be honest—it does. Even if it’s just a tiny preference, we all lean one way or another.
So, I told him gently, “This is your decision to make. Pick whichever one you like—I won’t choose for you.”
He paused, then asked,
“But… how will I know which one to choose?”
And in that moment, it hit me. Making decisions is hard—especially when you haven’t yet developed the tools to make them. We all make choices through filters we’ve built over time: experiences, values, desires, fears.
That’s how we get to know each other too—not just by the decisions people make, but by understanding the filters behind them. That’s why we can stand by people who sometimes make questionable choices—because we understand why they made them. And it’s also why we might feel distant from others who always seem to do the “right” thing—if their filters don’t align with ours.
We grow when our filters are challenged, and we feel a deeper connection with people who help us make sense of them.
My son couldn’t choose a toy because he hasn’t yet discovered his own filters.
And that’s when I realized my job isn’t to choose for him—but to guide him in discovering those filters. What a late but powerful revelation.
So, I knelt down and asked him,
“What are you looking for in a toy? Fun? Excitement? Something new? Something familiar?”
We began exploring the options together—not to make the choice for him, but to help him learn how to choose.
That day, I made one of the hardest decisions of my life: to let go of control, and accept the deeper truth—behind every choice, there’s a filter.
Letting go of control...that can be so hard to do. Nice job with the prompt!
The sun was low in the sky as we drove up into the Maures. My friend Jean was driving. We had an appointment at 5:30 in La Garde-Freinet to buy a pair of bedside tables. The trip was supposed to take about 45 minutes. The roads got narrower the farther up we went. Once when we missed a turn, the GPS directed us to make a U-turn and then take the next right. Farther on a sign said “private property” but there was no other way so we continued our long slow climb followed by a winding descent, a rocky slope on one side of the car, a ravine on the other. I held on to my seat back every time I dared to look out the window.
On the way, we passed a Range Rover turning around but we didn’t think anything of it. The GPS.said our destination was within reach.
Suddenly in the twilight, a barrier worthy of a high security prison rose up in front of us, barring the way.
We could barely make out, about 20 meters ahead, the road we were supposed to take, the road the GPS was showing us. On a pole beside the gate was a digital grid. We tried a few passwords in desperation but the gate didn’t budge. We looked around for a bell to ring, someone to call, maybe a guard to whom we could put our case. We yelled. No one.
No way the car could make it around that gate, and without the car, supposing that we were ready to climb over the barrier and try our luck on foot, well, on a dark moonless night, you can imagine.
Jean tried maneuvering the car into a u-turn, but the road was too narrow, the car too long. Backing up wasn’t any better: after he had with much difficulty negotiated about fifty meters in reverse, the clutch began coughing. It wouldn't hold out long enough to make it back to the main road. Were we going to have to spend the night here? Would we even make it through the night? We had no blankets, no food or water.
I told him we’d better turn off the lights if we didn’t want to wear out the battery. It was getting colder so he turned the key. But we couldn’t keep the motor running all night either. I thought of calling the cops, but he said why not call the guy we were supposed to meet.
The newly hired groundskeeper of a neighboring estate, he was in the process of moving in. The properties up here were all summer residences, he told us. No one around now. The police never ventured up here in winter. Most of the roads were private and it was the responsibility of the owners to maintain them. After a long wait he appeared in person to help us. He disappeared again to make a call. (No cell reception here.) At this point our decision rested with him.
Oh, my god. This is so tense! (Also, nice to see you here again, Karen!) I don't know if you've ever watched The Office, but your piece reminded me of this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOW_kPzY_JY
Thank you Mary, I'll check that out! I began to write this in response to another of your prompts a while back, but didn't have time to finish it before the next prompt came around...
Time loop fragment #12. [the scene in the museum referred to hasn’t yet been written]
You run out the museum door yelling “Help,” but your cries go unheard. You turn to the right, walk past several storefronts before you find the green door leading to the time-keeper’s office. At the top of the staircase, his door is open. You walk into the small room, no bigger than a closet and sit in the empty chair facing the time-keeper’s desk. The clock on the wall above the time-keeper’s desk has no hands with which to drive time forward. Time remains at a standstill, for you that is. Whereas other people go about their day as if whatever they do matters, counts for something, you always return to the bookstore to wait for Lisa who never appears.
How can a clock count the seconds, minutes, and hours with no hands? Does this mean that the middle sister of the Moirai, the Allotter, who carries the measuring rod has stopped measuring your life thread? Is your fate held at this indecisive moment until Lisa comes as she said she would?
You make excuses for her, say Lisa is always late and you are always early, she will soon be coming. She always shows up, you say. You consider the masks and heads you saw in the museum and the Sphinx, handless as the clock, and consider the length of time humanity has moved forward from its past, when people kept time by the rising and setting of the sun and moon. But now that time is measured by atomic clocks, we are enslaved by time: The beginning and end of work days, vacations, the hour of the start of the puppet performance that you and Lisa plan to see, as soon as she arrives, all are numbered from 1 to 12 on clocks.
Do you want the time-keeper to put the hands back on the clock? Once he arrives you must decide, for he will ask you whether it is time to set the alarm. You don’t want to be an alarmist, but you have heard people warning us, telling us that we are at an inflection point, messaging us loud and clear, saying that we are running out of time, Do not make the mistake of assuming you still have time. But for as long as time never moves forward for you, you will never age, never get old, the Allotter will never determine the length of your life thread and the third sister will wait and wait and wait with her knife in hand until time has run out for you, and the Allotter says, “Cut.”
That's a scary last sentence!
Later in the day I wrote this sentence: (its not quite right yet)
Or, if Lisa never comes, would you like to live forever in the Infinity Bookstore?
Have you read On the Calculation of Volumeby Solvej Balle? Hers is another time loop story, but in hers, everyone else is caught in the loop and she's the only one who ages, and for whom time moves forward. I read the the first two 'volumes' and now eagerly await the third to be translated and published.
Haven't read or heard of it! I'll look it up. Thanks!
Mary! A return of a favorite prompt from last year. Last time, I wrote about a woman who takes a wrong turn, gets chased by a cop and nagged by Siri, and ends up doing a "Thelma and Louise."
I had so much fun with that one.
Ha--did I do one similar to this last year? Hard to keep up with myself!
I think it was about making a decision, but who knows? I always add, subtract, multiply, and divide my own way in.🤣