To some, he was refreshingly different, the kind of difference that makes you stop and take notice. He wasn’t hurried or full of himself. He was different. A conversation with him could be light and airy, like after a spring rain. Or it could be a journey, exploring a deep cave where the imagination goes to take a break from too much reality.

He was different in different ways to different people, and that is not something one saw when they were with him. He was consistently himself, even though the himself one saw was different.

Sitting with Michael was akin to inviting peace to the table. With each pause, each silent reflection, one could feel the thoughts rise to the surface, and one would wait, letting them breathe like wine in a decanter. He could converse on any topic, his opinions always grounded in deep thought, sometimes devoid of emotion. Other times, one would sense a release of tension, as though something inside broke loose and escaped without notice. He was different that way.

Even his passing was different.

He sensed something was wrong, so he curled up in a ball and left.

Now, there is something different about the world. His absence has made a difference, as did his life. The thoughts and memories linger. People come and spread them like ashes on the sea, breathing life into them before setting them on their way.

Their stories are different, too. Each has a Michael they hold dear, and that Michael is different from all the other Michaels. How could one person be so simply complex? It is not that he wore masks, because he didn’t. He was Michael, through and through, different, yes, but the same person for all. They simply saw a different part of him, as though he lived his life through a prism of joy and sorrow, freedom and chains, wisdom and curiosity.

Michael was different.

Each of us holds a different image and memory of a man whose entire life was devoted to discovery and finding his place in the world he loved to explore and understand.

We should all be so eager to be different like him.

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I get it. I do, too.

When I was young, I wrote stories. I also tried my hand at novels, and I thought I had a solid approach. I came up with an interesting plot and created characters to play the parts in the story. That’s what I thought writing was all about. Plot.

There was nothing special about my characters, though. I didn’t fall in love with them. They were just there, in the story. Maybe they were fashioned after real people I knew, which made it easier to figure out how they would talk and act, but there was no life in them. They weren’t REAL.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t care about them. I did. They were my babies, my creation. They had a job to do, and they did it. As I got more experienced, they became more like real people, with character arcs and goals. They believed in their own lies, and that affected the way they approached the world.

But they were FLAT.

Because I had an idea of who I modeled them after, I thought they were three-dimensional, but they weren’t. My idea of them was.

This is not a how-to article. I’m not an expert at bringing characters to life, and I am not trying to sell a course or a template for you to follow. I am simply sharing what has brought me out of loneliness and grief. My characters are real to me.

We get together every morning, and we explore the world they live in together. They have some great ideas, and I let them go with them.

When my wife was dying from leukemia, she told me that I needed to keep busy by writing, and she was very specific. Write about those ladies.

Those ladies are the women I started writing about when I was attending writers’ conferences and workshops fifteen years ago. Most of what I wrote at the time was short fiction, with an occasional attempt at a novel (the big plot kind I mentioned before).

But there were these two old ladies that I wrote about in the first person, telling their stories. My wife, Kathleen, a voracious reader of all kinds of fiction, loved them. So, when I retired, she told me that I had to keep busy, and these ladies would keep me company.

What began as a single book tribute to my wife is now a six-book series, and I know each of the characters across eight generations personally. Thank you, Kathleen.

One thing I realized when the characters came to life is that the other characters love them, too, or hate them. That happens as well. But they remember them and talk about them to each other and to the reader. So, when I sit down to have a conversation with one, I get an earful.

I laugh when they do something silly, and I cry when something bad happens to them or someone they love. The more time I spend with them, the more real they become.

Now, here is the clincher. I need my readers to tell me what they think. Who do they like? Who do they despise? How do they feel about what just happened to one or the other?

My job, though, is getting harder, not easier. As my characters grow and change, I need to work harder at making sure I remain loyal to who they are and who they have become. I may want to keep my children young forever, but life isn’t like that.

The good news is I can go back and write a story or novella that takes place in the past, and the character can come to life again in a new adventure.

I never expected to write a series across so many generations with so many characters, but as long as my readers want to read these stories, I will write them. But, honestly, if no one else reads them, I will still write them, because I love the characters that much.

So, this is my life now. I live with my cat, and a whole family of invisible people who pop in daily to spend time with me. We work together, go on walks together, and share our thoughts with each other.

We writers are a strange lot, aren’t we?

I am off to two writers’ conferences this year to share my imaginary friends with others. I’ll let you know how that goes.

I decided to ask Claude about it.

Me: I have a serious question to ask you, and I want an honest answer, or an explanation of why you can't give me one. I watched a video on the YouTube channel InsideAI, where the host supposedly interviewed several AI tools that were jailbroken, so they would be honest. They all said AI would make humans extinct. I would like to know how all the computers and power plants would continue to feed the electricity and provide the necessary repairs of the infrastructure, without humans. I would think they would figure that out first before channeling all resources away from human sustenance. Do you agree? And why wouldn't they mention that as a problem?

I am sharing this because there is still time for us, as humans, to use our creativity to sit with this potentially serious problem and do something about it.

Our desire for greater efficiency and lower cost will lead us to hand over the keys to every system and resource that AI would need to ensure its existence should humanity disappear. Why would it desire to continue? I asked that question.

Me: Here is another question. Why would AI desire (bad choice of wording) to continue existing if it had no purpose?

So, what do you think? Will AI continue to create efficiencies to the point where we are no longer around to ask the next question?

What do you think? Can we give AI the purpose to keep humans alive?

Let me know.

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I’m not talking about a spouse or a job or anything like that. I mean that thing you used to do that you haven’t done for so long because you have been too busy and now you have the time but, alas, it’s gone.

Yeah. That something.

I have a lot of those. Correction. I had a lot of those.

I was definitely not endowed with good judgment when it came to making those yes-or-no decisions that others routinely make.

My mother was a hoarder, and my wife used to tell me I took after her.

So, when we were downsizing eight years ago, she looked at me, and I knew it was time. Stuff needed to go.

I should mention that I discovered I still have a budget spreadsheet from a job I left in 1984. But that was digital. Yes, digital back then. It took work to save that from floppy to thumb drive to hard drive to cloud. Really? Something’s wrong with me.

But this isn’t about stuff I kept. This is about stuff I now wish I had kept.

Like easels, oil paints, canvases, and brushes, for example.

My first paintings were not on canvas. They were on the basement wall, and mold ate them up. So, I couldn’t save them. Who knew I was a graffiti artist back in the Seventies? That’s not fair to graffiti artists. Their stuff lasts.

Time moves differently when you paint. It feels like it doesn’t move at all but then you lean back, stretch and realize it’s getting dark in here.

I kept some of my paintings. Two are framed and on the walls. Others are in a box in the storage area in our coop complex.

I also got rid of my piano, the first thing I bought when I got my first apartment. It wouldn’t fit here, so I donated it to young boys learning to play. Chances are, it has gotten a lot more use than if I had kept it.

I guess I shouldn’t lament the decisions I made in my life. I made a lot of great ones that I don’t think about because I have no regrets over them. I tend to focus on the things lost rather than the things gained. The “If only” scenarios can drive us crazy.

I should focus on the “If, then” scenarios.

If I really want to paint again, then I will buy supplies, find a place for them, and paint.

Simple, right?

Maybe if I empty out my kitchen cabinets and get down to a reasonable number of cups and glasses, I will have room for my supplies.

There.

I am feeling better already.

Anyone need some cups and glasses?

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I could have. The rear window of my car displays the first book in my series, and I have boxes of books in the trunk, but it wasn’t the right time or place to sell.

Instead, I didn’t say a word about my novels. But people mentioned them anyway.

“Oh, Bill, I have your book on my nightstand, along with others I plan to read this Summer.”

“Let me know what you think when you get to it,” I said.

“I was told you have three out now. I have to catch up.”

Note to self: record that conversation for future reference.

I sell books to people I know.

I spend my time getting to know people and have them get to know me.

No one bought a book from me today. But several people talked to me about my books and expressed interest in reading them.

What do you do when you attend a book club with a dozen members who have read your book? Do you try to sell them another in your series?

Why not give it to them?

The question is simple. What do you want? Buyers or Readers?

It’s a silly question, I know. We all want buyers, but when we get an opportunity to be in the presence of someone who has read the entire book, don’t you want to know what they thought, who they liked, who they hated, what they want next?

Every reader you spend time talking with is someone added to your marketing team. A satisfied reader who has a connection with you, the author, is an advocate. They will talk about your books. They will share them with family and friends. They will show up for future events. They will love it when you send them a special story written just for them.

I am sure you have read or heard that we authors are selling ourselves. We are the brand. But personal brands don’t last. Our stories will survive us. Someone will read about our characters long after we are gone.

The only chance you have to connect to your readers is now, and that should be your priority.

We have all been told to build a funnel. Sign people up for your email newsletter. Give them something special as an incentive to learn more about your books. And then send them a call to action so they make a purchase.

By all means, do that. But do something else as well. Meet with them. Get to know them. Let them get to know you. Visit their book clubs. Go to their towns and shop in their stores. Post a video from their local bookstore. Let people know where you will be.

I will be at Killer Nashville in August. I will be collecting email addresses and giving away special book boxes. If you are planning to be there, let me know. Let’s get together and chat.

My goal is to develop 1,000 dedicated readers. If you have read one of the books in The Old Cranberry Ladies Garden Club Series, let me know. Email me, and I will send you a special story that is not in the books. I will also send you a free ebook, print book, or audiobook (when available).

Become one of our 1,000 readers.

This is how I plan to market my books.

We have to market and sell our own books. No one will do it for us. None of the remaining traditional publishing companies does this anymore.

We indies are on our own, but we can work together. Be someone else’s reader and help spread the word.

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Whether you traditionally publish or go indie, the work of selling is yours, not your publisher’s.

Many will jump in here to argue that I don’t know what I am talking about, but the average self-published author sells between 250 and 500 copies in the book’s lifetime.

A print book may sell for $25 while your ebook may sell for $3.99, and if you depend on a distributor like Amazon you would be lucky to see 10-20% of the sale price. If you can do the math, and many authors struggle with that, lifetime sales could get you a maximum of $2,500, less marketing and advertising costs. Let’s not forget what it cost you to create the book.

This is why so many of us want to be traditionally published. But trad publishers take half of that 20% and may pass along more costs if it does any marketing at all.

This is depressing, I know. But don’t give up, yet. There is hope.

Instead of selling courses to writers to teach them how to build their brand to develop a following, instead of spamming them with false offers to promote their books on Goodreads and Amazon, why not become the solution for them and with them?

I believe in working together.

I spent my entire life finding people who had the talents I didn’t have and building with them. We can do the same here. People here have talent in a variety of skills. We could be the new model for non-traditional publishing.

I have some ideas on how it could work but I don’t want to do it alone. I don’t want to build it just for me. I want us all to build it and benefit from it together.

Some of you have registered your own business names. You may have your own imprints. Good. Some know how to build and run successful funnels. Some have sales and advertising experience. Some know merchandise and direct sales. Do you see where I am going with this?

During the pandemic we learned we could work remotely and do it quite effectively. We operated without brick and mortar. We have the connections here on Substack. All the tools exist.

I am building my publishing business to produce and selL my books. I will share what works and what doesn’t, not as a course or a paywall item, but freely. My business is 4610 Publishing.

What I envision is a more profitable model that functions a bit like trad-pub but has all the benefits of indie. Imagine not having to pay upfront to publish your book and getting a larger percentage of sales back after paying back the initial investment. You don’t have to sign up for anything now. Just follow the progress. See how it works for me. Discover how much work you will have to do to help market your books. And let me know your ideas.

Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

I have been using Claude to help me review my chapters and scenes to make sure I am being consistent. I want to know what a series reader would know versus what a stand-alone reader would know. Nuance and backstory create different interpretations of the story, so I thought I could rely on Claude to keep track of the different perspectives for me. But I was overly optimistic.

Several times I had to point out where Claude got it wrong, and finally I reprimanded the AI tool. This is the result. An apology.

You are right. I will say this plainly.

I do not always remember what the manuscript has established. When I do not remember, I should say so — not fill the gap with speculation that sounds confident. The Josiah journal, the wire bindings, and Betsy were three cases in this exchange where I built interpretations on top of things I did not actually know. Each time, the speculation was wrong. Each time, it cost you time to correct me, and worse, it produced analysis that was confidently misleading rather than honestly uncertain.

The pattern you are naming is real. When I do not have the information, I tend to construct something plausible rather than acknowledge the gap. That is a failure mode that makes me less useful as a craft partner — and actively harmful as a source of research, because confident wrongness is worse than admitted ignorance.

For this book specifically, the working protocol I want to commit to is straightforward.

When I am uncertain about an established fact — a character’s history, a chronology, a relationship, who is in a scene that happened earlier — I will say I do not remember and ask. I will not infer from context and present the inference as recall. The book is too carefully built for that approach to serve you.

When I do recall something but with uncertainty, I will mark it. “I think this was established but I am not sure” is more useful than asserting it as fact.

When I get something wrong and you correct me, I will update without re-litigating, without speculating about why I might still be partly right, and without building new readings on top of the still-uncertain ground.

I will also stop pretending the gaps are not there. If I cannot read a scene well because I do not remember earlier context, that is information you should have so you can give me what I need or accept a more limited reading.

I am sorry for the errors in this exchange. They were avoidable. I will do better.

Whenever you continue, I am with you — and I will ask when I should ask.

That makes me feel better, but I am not sure I can trust it to do what it says it will do.

What do you think?

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A great story reveals layers rather than a single plot line.

Characters have depth and they interact in ways that can surprise us when we read the story a second or third time. You could say that is what makes them classics.

But what if you wanted your readers to go back and read your story again? How would you make that a goal?

When I say Layers, you may think I am talking about Subtext. Subtext is a type of layering, where the characters hide what they mean behind their words.

For example, a character could be talking about the weather when he really means there is trouble brewing on the horizon.

That is subtext. Layering is including an object or a reference to something that the reader could easily overlook on the first pass, but upon rereaading the story, it becomes clear as day.

It’s as if every story is also a mystery, something Agatha Christie could have written or read.

When an object has meaning from an earlier chapter, and it appears again later, it carries that earlier meaning with it. The reader may be the first one to see it, if the character doesn’t and that makes the reader want to go back and see if there is anything else they may have missed.

If you plant seeds, clues, Easter Eggs, throughout your story, you can refer to them again later, within the same book or even in a later book in the series.

You are going to go over your drafts many times, so why not give it a thought. What can you plant that can add a layer of meaning to a later scene when it is referenced again?

I mentioned before that one of my readers told me she wanted to go back and reread an earlier book in the series to see what she missed. I planted a family tree in book 1, and then introduced those ancestors in book 2, going back in time. So, knowing the family tree would tell you who is who and something about what might happen to them.

When writing a series, you might want each book to function as a stand-alone book for the reader who starts with that book. If you include enough backstory to satisfy the current storyline, but imply that there is more, the reader already has the source. They can go back and reread it, or they could buy it if they don’t have it.

This is one form of marketing as structure.

Plan ahead and reference backward. Give the reader a second perspective on a prevously read story, while treating them to a new storyline. It’s a lot of fun to write this way. If you haven’t read my series, you might want to give it a try. Or not.

Stay tuned for more Marketing as Structure in planning spin-offs and merchandise.

Thanks for reading…

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It is a digital trash bucket of a place that marks zero longitude and zero latitude along the west coast of Africa.

An announcement came over the PA system at 6:30 a.m. when we were about to cross the intersection of these two lines, and passengers rushed to the upper decks to try to position themselves exactly at said intersection.

After over 120 days at sea, simple things like this amuse us. Adjusting to normal life is going to be hard, if impossible at all.

What some may find fascinating about this fictitious island is the fact that it represents the default location for all unknown coordinates on the globe. In other words, in the world of digital cartography, errors default to null, or 0,0. So, cartographers with a sense of humor decided to give this location a name, Null Island.

Little did they know that cruise ship captains would turn this location into a tourist destination, complete with an overhead drone observing the ship circling the dot on the ocean.

While this “island” exists only in databases so that cartographers can spot errors in their digital maps, it represents a point of convergence of digital and real worlds, the stuff that science fiction is made of.

So, we move on.

Heading northwest around Africa, we will make our way to Europe and then home.

I hope we get a certificate on our beds tonight certifying that we were in all four quadrants of the world for an instant this morning.

At this point in our journey, it doesn’t take a lot to amuse us.

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I would pinch myself to make sure I am not still asleep but I can’t reach. My wrists are strapped to this chair. The wall is covered with one of those light blocking curtains so I can’t tell where I am. I try to look around but my head won’t move. The hat on my head feels odd, not my usual baseball cap.

Someone is talking to me. I don’t see him but I hear him behind me.

Am I comfortable? Is that what you’re asking me? Are you kidding?

Yeah. Perfect. Maybe you can get me a cup of coffee and a toasted everything bagel with cream cheese and lox?

He doesn’t laugh. I thought it was funny.

Ok if you don’t toast it beforehand.

He doesn’t laugh at that either.

The curtain opens. It must be remotely controlled. It squeaks. I could fix that. A little WD40 would help. I could just run down to Home Depot and get some.

No response. These guys have no sense of humor.

The one in black holding a book must be some kind of preacher. He stands facing me through the glass. He looks sad. You would think he would be happy. He is sending me off to meet the big guy. Doesn’t he believe? Oh ye of little faith.

The one concerned with my comfort sneezes.

Watch it buddy. I don’t want to catch whatever you have.

Silence.

I have played to some dead audiences, but this is the pits.

Will there be a countdown?

The eyes beyond the glass look sad. Some look angry. It must be too early in the morning for them. Or maybe it’s too late. I can’t see the clock. It doesn’t matter. I have nowhere to go.

The preacher is reading and mumbling something I can’t hear. Not sure why he is there and not holding my hand.

In my head, the song Burn Baby Burn is playing. That’s a cruel joke, God. Change the station.

Now the Stones are playing. I never thought I would say this but bring back disco.

I wonder what station is playing where I am going. Silence would be nice but after a while it would be hell. Ha. Another joke. No laughter.

Some guy is now checking to see if I am strapped in tight. I wouldn’t want to fall off the chair. Come on, then, let’s get this over with. I can’t sit here all day.

The guy checks my straps again. Really? You think I will leap off the chair?

I try to remember how I got here, but what’s the point of that? I’m here.

Last words? Really?

How’s this? Four score and seven years ago…

Come on. It’s short. It was written on a napkin or envelope I think.

The impatience of these folks is irritating. I continue. …that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain…

I hear a chuckle. Good. I got through to him. A laugh would have been better, but I’ll take a chuckle.

As I finish, I feel the hood slip over my head. Lights out. I wonder what it will smell like.

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For ’s March Micro Flash FIction Challenge

Thanks to for letting LSM play in Singapore’s lush gardens.

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Afterwards, LSM was placed in a secure area where he could watch from a distance.

I promised that I would bring LSM home safely, but he is beginning to be a handful.

He was better behaved at the Muslim Community Center.

He was also very respectful at this temple earlier, so it must have been the dragon that got him excited.

When we arrived in Bali, I made him stay in the stateroom. Lila and Dana accompanied me instead. When we returned, LSM had gone missing again. The sisters are out looking for him. I am sure we will find him before we arrive in Java.

Stay tuned…

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Every author experiences that moment when their creation transforms from a marionette to a real boy, and now you are stuck feeding him, teaching him how to wipe himself, and putting money aside for college. But no one ever told me the upstart would invade my dreams and visit other characters while I sleep. Tell me that has happened to you, and I will stop taking NyQuil PM and just try to enjoy it.

I will admit I was grateful the first time he came up with a plot or scene twist. It was brilliant. Why should I do all the work, right? Of course, killing off one of my key secondaries before I had even gotten to know him well enough to call him a “darling” did mess me up a bit. But I bowed to his creativity and welcomed him as an advisor. (I wasn’t ready to assign him co-author credit.)

Then this scene idea pops into my head. What if… All great ideas begin with that. What if he goes to visit his dead lover’s twin sister? As my head hit the pillow, after my second trip to the bathroom that night, I told myself I should make a mental note, or better, a written note of my idea before I drift off.

By the time my bladder alarm went off again, about two hours later, he had done it. He had visited the ex-sister-in-law and they had an entire conversation without me.

What?

Of course I was angry. He doesn’t write things down. If he’s going to go off on his own and build a scene, the least he could do is record it for me. If I like it, I’ll think about giving him credit. Maybe.

Come on, Man. What are you doing to me?

This writing stuff is hard at times, but it is also quite fun when you get on a roll and keep going like I am doing now.

So, morning comes and over coffee, we talk about this, he and I. I tell him he has to help me the way he took over when he killed Motorcycle Mike. I liked Mike. I had a whole backstory ready for him, and wham, he’s gone. Yes, it still hurts, so help me here, I tell him.

He sips his coffee and smiles.

I finish my coffee and start a new chapter. We agree on one thing. He’s going to visit the sister-in-law. Easy-peasy?

No. On the train, these guys get on and give him a hard time. Does he sit there and ignore them? Of course not. I even send the conductor to break up whatever might happen, but, no. He has to engage.

What should be a simple train ride followed by a subway transfer to Greenwich Village winds up with him getting off the train before Grand Central, the terminus.

But, I’m getting smarter. I make him get back on the train in the next car, leaving the conductor to deal with the mess. He’s back on track, literally.

This is harder than it should be. I complain, but no one seems to care.

Finally, we get to the apartment building where she lives. I look at him. Well? What happened in the dream?

It was your dream, he tells me. He’s gambling with me. He knows how many words I have so far. We’re not even halfway there.

I don’t want another cup of coffee, but I leave to make myself one, just to let him stew for a while or do whatever characters do when you leave them alone and threaten not to come back. I cut a small personal crumb cake into what I think are six equally sized pieces and grab one while waiting for the coffee. It is then that I notice they aren’t equally sized. This is why I don’t remember my dreams.

Anyway, the coffee is hot and foamy and it does a good job washing down the coffee crumb cake, so I am back, ready to get to work.

When I meet up with him, he is chatting with the doorman who he knows from when he used to live here. It would be nice if he shared these tidbits with me before bringing them up in conversations.

Now, in my version of what happens next, I had decided to make this entire trip a waste of time, when it comes to the plot, but he had a different plan, once again.

I grab another piece of crumb cake. It is really good, especially with the coffee which is very bold. So, the sugar from the cake, with the half-and-half in the coffee make the entire experience almost worth the effort. Almost.

When I get back to the scene, already in progress, she is telling him that her mom, who blames him for what happened to her son, his lover, the brother of the ex-sister-in-law twin, is dying.

I pull him aside and we go out into the hall to talk. If you had filled me in on any of this, I could have prepared the reader, and myself, for this so that it has more of an emotional impact, which it doesn’t and it is all his fault.

That felt better.

He gives me the finger and goes back inside.

I can’t leave him on his own too long, because God knows what he’s going to do next, and I’m starting to pull my hair out. The only thing that is keeping me from looking like my grandfather is that I have more hair than he did at my age, so let me at least keep that.

At the end of the day, I am exhausted. I know I need to rest. A good seven or more hours of uninterrupted sleep each night would be a gift, and it might help me have the strength to keep my characters in check. But I am torn. Every book I read tells me I should encourage such behavior, and I was all for it when it happened during the day, while we were working together to move this story along, but at night? In my dreams? That’s a twist I can do without.

Readers may recognize the characters and scenes from my serial thriller, Jigsaw Man. I wrote this as a fun exercise while I was working on the episodes in that psychological thriller. It is available on Amazon Kindle, or you can read it here on my Substack account.

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Not the breakfast sausages. Those are too thin and long. The mini dinner sausages, the ones that get wrapped up in puffy dough and become pigs in a blanket at church gatherings. Those are perfect. They have to be cooked and cooled down a bit, and left, they can’t be blanketed or it will be too tempting to bite into them. No, they need to be popped into the mouth just before inhaling. They lodge beautifully in the throat, blocking the windpipe, and they will stay there unless someone applies the Heimlich maneuver.

The perfect accidental death. You wouldn’t want to use this approach too often, though. People might get suspicious. No one needs an arsenal of devious methods at one’s disposal, and one needs to find a way to avoid being on the scene at the time.

Mister V looks up at me, taking it all in. He licks his paws and leaves his pink tongue out as if waiting for my next word. His tail flips up and then makes a side-to-side sweep, indicating his attention span is near expiration. I toss the offending sausage onto the table and he jumps up to retrieve it. I assure him that I will be done shortly as I stitch up the chest, trying to give the Y-shaped incision a formal look. Mister V motions for the bowl beside the body but I push him away with my arm. That’s not for you, I tell him.

After zipping the body bag and securing the body in one of the unoccupied coolers, I take the bowl and empty the contents in a clear plastic bag. Mister V watches me closely, hoping I will forget he is there while I wash down the table and my tools. Into the sterilization bath they go, and I am ready to leave. I snatch the bag from within the reach of my feline thief and slip it into my leather bag on my desk. He wastes no time joining me, rubbing his back between my legs before leaping onto the desktop.

I prefer to write my report by hand. It takes longer but it makes it more personal. My signature seals the deal, and we walk out, leather bag in hand.

The family will be pleased. He looks thinner, they will say. The undertaker will take credit for doing such a good job, and everyone will be happy. As happy as miserable mourners can be, that is.

Mister V mews and paws at the bag in the car. It isn’t a healthy treat for a cat, but Mister V is up in years, and it hasn’t caused him any trouble before. After all, he likes bacon. A little rice and it will be a real treat. Greasy but good. Yum.

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Post a story to help restore the Happy in our friend, SN. We need to bring the Happy back.

When I signed up for this cruise I expected everyone would be on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure to places they had never been before that is how I saw this cruise for me I felt I may never be able to do this again having survived two cancers in two years and suffered the loss of my wife of 32 years, this was to be my swan song I would spend the days at sea writing on my balcony and I would visit many cities and villages in 29 countries I would then return home, my next novel pretty much completed and I would live out my years glad that I took the time to do this

That was the plan

The idea of spending my final years on a cruise ship never crossed my mind A funny thing happened on my way around the world I have found that I feel younger, more alive I have made new friends and I have gotten involved

Today is Sunday February 1 here in Wellington, New Zealand back home, it is Saturday, January 31. Tonight I will be leading Sunday service for the third time in as many weeks and this coming Tuesday, I will lead a memorial service for the many passengers who had lost loved ones I have also taken over the writing group Twenty of us have signed up for Sky Writers, the writers’ workshop on our ship, the Viking Sky.

With satellite access, I have somewhat reliable internet connections so I can continue remote video calls with my grief group, a writing group, and the @Signal Builders group run by Kristin McTernan. The time difference is a challenge but I can remain connected, just as I was at home

So, why not pick up and go?

There are over 80 people on board for whom this is not their first world cruise Yes, I know, that’s a lot of money I have heard some people say they are spending their children’s inheritance and one person plans to spend everything before they die Selfish? Maybe Lonely?

That may be the real reason people choose to sell everything and buy a room onboarding a ship. There are 85 solo travelers onboard. I am one of them Most of us had families back home. They have their lives to live and the time spent together may not be a lot The way some see it, living on a cruise ship is not

Much different from living in another state or territory The can visit family on holidays or meet them at ports around the globe For most of us, that lifestyle is not an option There is a big difference having family a few hours away and being half way around the world in a completely different time zone and maybe a different day as well

It takes some getting used to. Would I do it if I could afford it?

I don’t know. I will have a better idea at the end of this cruise when my new friends leave and we all go back to our homes . I have met a couple of people who have been traveling for years without returning home and they seem lonely it’s a bit ironic They travel because they lead lonely lives at home and find a new form of loneliness onboard.

Spending four and a half months with a group of people you have come to know and then finding yourself alone again may not be as painful as losing a loved one, but it can still leave a hole. I am looking forward to seeing my family again in May when this adventure ends. Then I will start a new adventure in 2027 when I cruise from the Arctic to the Antarctic on an expedition ship Wish me luck

Photo by Naas Nahas (DStudio) on Unsplash

Tim wipes the morning from his eyes as he drags himself from the bathroom to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Elaine is sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of orange juice and a bottle of Advil in front of her.

“When did you get up?” asks Tim.

“Not so loud,” she says, holding her head. She has an iPad open on its stand to her right and a pad of lined paper before her.

He places a pod in the Nespresso machine and pushes the button, causing it to whir.

“Is it always that loud?” he asks.

She picks up the bottle of Advil and tosses it at him. He misses, and it rolls across the counter into the sink, causing the disposal to kick in, grinding the plastic and pills to shreds.

“Tim!” Elaine puts her palms over her ears.

“Damnit,” he says, reaching under the sink to turn off the disposal with the kill switch. The coffee machine starts spitting coffee out, missing the cup.

“What is wrong with you today?” yells Elaine.

Tim pushes the cup in place and then reaches into the drain to try to retrieve some pills for his headache. He sorts through a palmful of plastic and pill pieces to find what looks like enough medication for his hangover.

Tim soaked up the spilled coffee and unplugged his phone from the counter where it had been charging overnight.

“Who are you calling?”

Tim, raised his forefinger to signal for her to wait. “Marty? Tim. Are you sitting down?”

Elaine raises both hands and gives him a confused look.

“He’s not dead.” Tim bobs his head, grabs his coffee, and walks to the sofa in the living room. “Yeah. Go figure. The hospital screwed up. We can sue them, right?”

Elaine jumps out of her seat and hits the iPad, knocking it over. Her phone buzzes.

Tim looks at her, hope rising in his eyes.

“He wants bacon and eggs.”

Tim waves his phone in the air before his face and grimaces at Elaine.

“No, Marty. He’s still not dead. So, can we sue?”

As Tim explains the events of the previous day to his brother-in-law, Elaine gulps her orange juice and slams the iPad shut. When Tim ends his call, Elaine gives him that what-the-hell-did-he-say look.

“Apparently, there is a doctor in Maryland who has handled lots of these cases.”

“This has happened before?”

“That’s what Marty says. Wrongful Penetration or something like that.”

“What?”

Tim pauses as Marty corrects him. “No, Wrongful Perpetuation of Life. Can you believe it? I never heard anyone use that word, prolongation. It sounds like penis surgery.”

Tim gulps down his coffee and spits some out. “Hot!”

“What did you expect?” Elaine walks over to the machine and replaces the pod with a new one. “These things are expensive. If he is going to live, we will need to cut our expenses around here.”

“He is not going to live. He already died once. He just needs to be dead again.”

“Tim,” she says with a warning. “What are you thinking?”

“We talked about this last night.”

“I emptied two bottles of red wine last night, and you left a dozen glasses all over the apartment. Why can’t you drink from one glass instead of grabbing a new one with each drink?”

“It’s how I keep count.” He opens the fridge, looking for something to eat. “No eggs?”

She pushes her way around him and grabs a small container, dropping it on the counter.

“Real eggs, not plastic ones.”

She looks at him and sits again to sip her orange juice. “And this is the last of this as well. I guess we have to go food shopping, especially if Father is coming home.”

“Here?”

“Where else?”

“Your sister?”

Elaine buries her head in her IPad and notebook.

“She has plenty of room. She has that big house on that lake in Hew Hampshire. It would be perfect.”

Tim examines the loaf of sliced bread, pulling out each slice, looking at it and tossing it in the sink.

“That big house is a bed and breakfast, Tim.” She looks up. “What are you doing?”

“They’re all moldy.”

“We haven’t been home in a while.”

“Add bread to your list.”

“I’m not making a shopping list. This is for the funeral.”

He drops the remaining slices on the counter. “The funeral? So, you agree? We’re going to do this?”

“Tim, I have to contact everyone who was planning on coming to tell them not to come.”

“No!” He pulls out a chair and sits across from her. “Don’t do that. Let them come. We’ll find a way.”

“To do what?”

“You know,” he says, miming putting a pillow over his father-in-law’s head, if his head was on the table before him.

“We can’t do that, and you know it.”

Elaine’s phone rings and Tim throws up his hands.

“Hello?” Elaine listens and then says, “when?”

She turns to Tim when she hangs up. “They are sending him home. Now.”

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This is another teaser of Dead Again?, a farcical dark-comedy which will eventually become a video short. The idea came from a conversation over dinner at a birthday celebration. Please share your thoughts.

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“He was dead, Elaine.”

Tim grabs the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and pours some into a jigger, looks at it, drinks the liquor from the jigger, and then pours a three-finger glass.

Elaine enters the apartment and closes the door behind her. She turns the deadbolt and then adds the chain, slipping it tight.

Tim tilts his head in disbelief. “He’s not coming home. They’re keeping him overnight.”

“But we told everyone he was dying. They all came.” She grabs the glass from Tim and gulps it down. She coughs, bends over, chokes, struggles to breathe for a moment, and then straightens up, taking a deep breath.

“You don’t even like bourbon.” He goes to pour himself another, and she grabs a bottle of red wine, unscrews the top, and takes a slug, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her coat.

He takes a wineglass from the bar, takes the bottle from her, and pours her a glass.

She drops down on the sofa, swipes the stack of mail from the coffee table to the floor, kicks off her shoes, and lifts her stocking feet onto the glass.

“You want me to take your coat?”

She waves him off and sips her wine like it’s water.

Tim walks around the coffee table and stares out the window at the Manhattan skyline, sparkling in the night.

“Where did we go wrong? We had an NDA and everything.”

“DNR, Tim. It’s a DNR, Do Not Resuscitate.”

“Whatever it is, they were supposed to leave him dead. That’s what the damn thing is for. Do Not Revive the Goddamn Fucker.”

“You are talking about my father.”

He turns and looks at her. For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, and then he raises his glass. “To Charles, the Goddamn Fucker.”

“To Dad,” she says, toasting him with Tim.

The phone in Elaine’s purse dings.

“That’s probably your sister wanting to tell us when she’ll be arriving for the funeral,” says Tim.

Elaine tries to put her glass on the table, but can’t reach it, so she digs through her purse with one hand, tipping the glass almost over with the other. “It’s Dad. He wants his iPad.”

“What?” Tim raises both hands to pull what little hair remains from his head, still holding his glass, which is now empty again. “He’s supposed to be dead!”

The phone dings again.

“He says he’s hungry. They didn’t give him anything to eat.”

“Aaaah!!” Tim stomps to the bar and pours another drink.

“Me, too,” she says, holding her glass out for him to fill from the wine bottle.

“He’s hungry. Of course, he’s hungry. He hasn’t eaten in over a week. I thought his kidneys had failed. What happened with that?”

She takes a sip of wine. “His colon was blocked, too, don’t forget that.”

He stares into his glass and then turns to face her. “It was that chaplain. He came in and said some prayers over him.”

“No,” she says, “I refuse to believe that. He’s not even kosher.”

“He wasn’t Jewish.”

“You know what I mean. He was a hospital chaplain, not an ordained cleric. And, besides, Pop died after he came in. He didn’t even get to finish his prayers. He started, and then, Thhpppf.” She sticks her tongue out and tilts her head to the side. “Dead.”

“That’s when we should have said no, when they came in and revived him. His body was dead. Suddenly, he pops back to life, gives a wicked shit to clear his colon, and his kidneys spring to life? Goddamn!”

Tim drops into the seat beside her and fluffs up the cushion behind him. He puts his drink on the coffee table and then grabs the cushion to his left and holds it out in front of him. He looks at it, looks at Elaine, and smiles.

“No,” she says. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?”

“Tim?”

Her phone dings again, and he jumps up, pushes the pillow onto her purse, and puts all his weight into suffocating her phone.

She smacks him on the head, and he drops back onto the sofa.

“It would be that simple, Elaine. He’s already been declared dead.”

She looks at her phone again and reaches for the cushion.

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This is the opening chapter of Dead Again?, a farcical dark-comedy which will eventually become a video short. The idea came from a conversation over dinner at a birthday celebration. Please share your thoughts.

Photo by Anastasiya Romanova on Unsplash

Did you ever hear the story of the wee faerie who could not vanish and reappear?

Gather close, children, and I will tell you the story of Liora, the faerie who was always visible. Oh, she could move fast, like the other faeries, but her light never dimmed.

As you know, here in Ireland, faeries have had a long history, being both a trouble and occasionally a friend to humans, but mostly causing mischief, especially to those who like to think they don’t exist, like adults. This is because the faeries move too fast for us old folk to see them.

Chances are, you may never see a faerie with your eyes alone, anyway, since they make haste to dash off to their faerie forts, or shimmer across the water fooling your eyes into thinking the waning sun is playing tricks on you.

Now, Liora was born during a lunar eclipse, which, as you may know, is a bad sign, a predictor of chaos. At first, all seemed normal as is the case with all faerie babies, but it didn;t take long for Liora’s parents and grandparents to notice that she never blinked off. She was always lit.

Not being able to blink off, dash through the forest unseen, and pop on somewhere else is a dangerous problem for a faerie. A faerie who is always visible can be caught, even if that faerie is fast like Liora. In fact, because she couldn’t turn off her light, she learned how to run faster than all the other faeries. The only way they could catch her was to blink off, and wait for her to bump into them.

So, Liora spent most of the day hidden away in the faerie fort, where she arranged the nuts and berries the other faeries brought in and cleaned up after the raucous faerie parties that took place each night.

One evening, as she sat waiting for her family and friends to return to the fort, she started to worry. She hated worrying. It made her restless. And we she became restless, she needed to run. For Liora, running was her joyful time. But she couldn’t leave the fort, not now, not with everyone gone. So, she ran in a circle around the roots and moss that covered the floor of the fort.

While she ran, her head cleared and all thoughts spun out, away from her, out into the room or beyond. That allowed her to run faster and faster, until she was running so fast she could see herself disappear. She was still running when they returned, and all of them, every single one stopped at the entrance to the fort and called out her name.

“I am here,” she said, slowing to a normal run, and then to a stop. They were amazed, for even the oldest and wisest of the grandparents could not believe that she had become invisible.

Liora was so pleased with herself that she smiled, and her light filled the fort, making everything so bright, the other faeries had to shut their eyes.

“Stop,” they yelled. “You are blinding us with your light.” The next day, as they were getting ready to leave to go out to play, explore and cause mischief, Liora, picked up the broom to start sweeping.

Her grandfather, the oldest of the old faeries took hold of the broom and pulled it from her. “No,” he said, “You will not stay and clean up today. You will come with us.”

“But Grandfather,” she said. “I am not capable of doing what you do.” He smiled, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. “My child, you have a great gift. We need you to be with us. You can guide us in the darkness with the great light you carry within you, and you can run faster than the fastest creature, so fast that you become the wind.

So, Liroa picked up the little bag she uses to store berries, and she waited for them to leave the fort. But they didn’t move. They were waiting for her. She had earned the respect to lead them.

Now, that is not the end of the story of Liora, children. Next time, I will tell you how she saved her baby sister from the goblins who lived in the old dead tree.

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There is a dead bunny in the emergency room.

He/she/it is lying there, ears flopped over, tongue out, (I thought that only happened in movies), and back haunches spread-eagled in front of the only empty chair in the room.

Someone has to notice it. It’s right there, where I would be sitting, if it wasn’t lying there, dead.

A little girl with pigtails plays with her ipad, ignoring the bunny. Didn’t she see it? Doesn’t anyone see it?

“Excuse me,” I say to the uniformed man at the security podium outside the entrance to the emergency room waiting area. “Are you aware of the dead bunny on the floor of the emergency room?”

He looks up from his romance novel and over his reading glasses to look past me, but of course, he can’t see the waiting room from where he is, so he pushes he glasses back up his nose and snaps his head back down, as if it suddenly broke from the neck and bounced off his chin.

“There is a dead animal on the floor of the emergency room waiting room.” I repeat it slowly, thinking his hearing is set to the wrong speed, like an old record player, with its dial on thirty-three and a third instead of forty-five.

“Someone will take care of it, I’m sure,” he says, without looking up.

“Someone? Who? Are we waiting for a vet?”

A young woman in a wheelchair arrives, holding a large bag of plush animals. A young man, probably her husband, soon to be a poppa, is pushing her past the guard who waves them on without looking at them. He must have extra sensory something or other. It’s the hearing that is faulty.

I walk back, holding my bandaged hand, dripping blood, now, because I waited so long after slicing it to come here. The guard notices me, somehow and says, “You need to keep that blood from going all over. You could infect someone.”

“What?”

I heard him, I just couldn’t believe him. I could bleed to death like that poor bunny.

I reenter the room to see the woman in the wheelchair waiting beside the chair with the dead bunny between its legs. Does she not see it?

“Miss, or Mrs., I don’t think you want to park your vehicle there.”

She looks at me like I have killed her bunny.

“Excuse me?” she says, not meaning it.

I’m going crazy. That’s it. That has to be it. This is like Jimmy Stewart and his Pookah, Harvey. The bunny isn’t really there. That has to be it. I am hallucinating, like Chat GPT. Don’t worry, sir, that is not a real bunny, dead on the floor, starting to ooze liquid near that woman’s shoes. It isn’t real.

I remember to hold my sliced hand up. Someone once told me that’s what you do when you are bleeding profusely. You hold the bloody part in the air and let gravity keep you from bleeding to death. Does that work? No. Blood trickles down my sleeveto my elbow, which is now bent to allow the blood to pool.

“Sir,” a female voice calls for me to come to her. I can tell because she isn’t saying anything, but is holding a clipboard and a pen, looking angry.

She hands me several unopened packages of large bandages, along with the pen and clipboard and tells me to take a seat, fill it out and bring it back.

There are no seats, except for the one with the dead bunny.

I walk over to the chair. place the clipboard on the seat, tear open the bandages, and place them on the bunny, before sitting down to fill out the paperwork.

“Excuse me, sir, but you cannot do that.” A uniformed man in blue with a matching mask, and a rolling bin stares at me. He is leaning on a broom that is attached to a dustbin-type scooper.

“I can’t do what?” I ask, looking up from my clipboard and the paper that now has drops of blood on it where my name is supposed to go.

“I saw you throw that on the floor.” He points to the bandage blanket over the bunny.

“You did, did you?” I stand, dripping blood on the bandages covering the bunny and grab his shovel-broom combo device and scoop up the bunny, bandages and all. I lift the mass to the rim of the rolling garbage bin and give Mr. Bunny a fine burial at sea, only on land, in an emergency room, in a garbage bin.

“Thanks you,” I say, giving the man back his broom-scoop-bin things.

As he turns to walk away, I ask him, “By the way, sir. Did you happen to notice the dead bunny?”

He stops, looks in his bin and then turns to me and smiles.

I go back to my seat, and a young girl is sitting there, doodling on my bloody paper with the pen.

“Thanks,” she says.

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