9.29

The dog is looking at me, I think, but can't see me. Not blind from cataracts or damage, but rage. In that dog two small pinholes break the seal between this plane and the next, opening a doorway through its eyes into some dark beyond. I stood on the backside of the gate, wishing he were within and I were without, in the street, striding by without needing to pay attention to the savage barking of the devil dog trapped behind a gate.

9.19

When Terrance was twelve, he took to calling himself Slingshot. Not at home, not where his mother could hear (she was far too practical for such nonsense), but around his friends and the rough acquaintances that count for friends among children at the cusp of sentience. And perhaps that's exactly why he could get away with such a daring maneuver: none of the children he played catch with in the school yard were old enough yet themselves to understand the unmitigated gall of first giving yourself a nickname and on top of that choosing such a ludicrous concept as its basis. After all, you don't look askance at a Slingshot when you yourself are Riptide, Slashfire, Orca Commander, and Buck.

When Terrance was thirteen, his mother (ever practical, ever down-to-earth and a firm, foundational rock upon which to build a childhood) moved her small family in pursuit of a job. The company she worked for was willing to pay her nearly twice as much to do the same tasks in a decrepit corner of the state, far from any normal folks who might turn their noses up at a Slingshot wannabe, and in fact, far from anybody who might be interested in wanting to be a Slingshot, and in fact, far from anybody at all. Slingshot (please again remember, this name is not my work, but his) was not devastated because he didn't know enough yet to be devastated about such small things. Where once there were people, now there were new friends, but not of the sort that an older person might be able to comprehend. Our sometime child was even yet ante-sentient. He made good use of his limbo. If his mother chattered with the mile-and-a-quarter neighbors about the inconvenience of the small river separating their two properties, Slingshot made full use of its storytelling potential. If his mother sighed about the fallen tree blocking the majority of the tight, winding driveway, Slingshot saw the covert influence of a cabal of nettling enemies. If his mother complained about the long hours her son spent out doors, Slingshot wasn't there to hear it. In the forest that crept up to their timid lawn, his complete wasteland friendscape was forgotten, for a time.

When Terrance was twenty five, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had not actually been friendless at any time in his life, but perhaps he had never had friends either. The treehouse pine and the gully with the fort in it and the culvert tunnel were, to him, the exact same utility as Riptide, Slashfire, Orca Commander, and Buck. Terrance was floored by this revelation in a conversation with his first adult friend, Corey, to whom he told everything and from whom he held nothing, and with whom he realized that at twelve, all friends are essentially trees.

9.17b

9.17

Craters of the Moon

9.11

You were pregnant and I was trying to bring the whole sixth grade class over to watch. I doubt you would have minded. Miracle of birth and all that. But they just wouldn't settle into an appropriate attitude, and I missed the birth of our son. If I were a better man, I would have made it. If I were a better teacher, we would have all made it. But I'm just groggy enough from the dream that I doubt I'll be either for some time to come.
5:01am

9.6

In the hush of totality, two strangers passed paths on an old section of forsaken road. Neither knew where the other was going, nor wherefore. They only knew they had to go, while the rest of the world watched, and the sun was eaten.

9.5

The twice-toasted smell of old crumbs is gagging me. There's something stale and hollow about them, something greasy about the rancid aftertaste of every breath, and something metallic mixed from the screaming aluminum of the countertop. I stand up, spine tingling, knees creaking, and stop sweeping behind the stove only to find my self-satisfaction is fleeting and the next order, this time a reuben with a side of fries, waiting for me.

9.4

Don't mind me, I'm just over here planting my Gorrum bulbs. Soon, they'll grow up into small spiky plants that puff out thin wisps of light. Don't touch the light, please, it's how the plants reproduce. You wouldn't touch the gametes of another animal. What's that you say? Roe, caviar, chicken eggs? Well, that's gross and depressing, but you really shouldn't touch the Gorrum pollen. It's probably poisonous and it definitely causes cancer.