The world is too loud. That’s it. The world is so loud in what it says, and what it expects. I desperately want to listen, but not to the cacophony. I’m not being entirely truthful. I want to hear. I want quiet enough to perceive the small whispering sound I know is there. The sound that can be just heard over the distant music, of the song I want to sing. The beauty of that coming song rends my heart such, that I begin to understand the quiet sound. But I cannot hear over the noise.

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There has been so much going on other than writing. Little of it is distraction. Much of it is right for me to do. There is a groaning solace in that. I endure, with often a smile, because this is for me. Admittedly I tire, when the third tree-damaging wind storm interrupts a planned project. Or I chafe a bit, when swim lessons (which are excellent things) carve out a week or two of my time. And the literal breaking-in-half of a lawnmower brought tears, as I cracked open the piggy bank on the top shelf.

You should have seen the destruction of the first wind storm. I say that because awe is worth feeling. It broke tree tops and uprooted whole trees. At our church, where I am the tree guy, one crabapple rolled down a hill, and came to rest upside-down against an old lady’s house. I removed it first and found nary a scratch on her gutters. The overall destruction was such that it took me (and several volunteers) a week to clean up! The two following windstorms produced less brush, but similar interruptions.

There is also the ongoing task of firewood for this winter. The rain has been interrupting that, but we are making progress. I complain little of the rain, because it grows grass well. The new patches of lawn I seeded this spring look amazing. I dug several bushels of tasty potatoes recently. And I celebrated my 21st anniversary and 48th birthday in close succession.

I am not doing much hearing right now, but I am listening. And how I wish there was less that was proper for me to do, so I could listen fully. As I sit here in reflection it seems likely this longing, might teach me to stop moving when pauses happen. Perhaps the proper thing to do when waiting is to listen. That is enough to do I think.

Poems have been flowing. I present one here for the paid subscribers. It travels the roads of a life’s reflection, and asks one simple question: have you heard?

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Thank you Tom, Roger, and Tom for supporting this work as paid subscribers, and Bill for being a founding member. We have received the beef you helped purchase, and it is tasty! Stop by sometime, and I’ll grill you a steak.

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There is a brush pile of anxiety in my chest. It is decades old at this point. Branches lie smashed and heaped. Trunks and whole trees jut out at odd angles. Masses of briar, wound tightly together, guard dark decaying things in the center. Brambles have grown up around, and found purchase through countless knot holes and gnarls. Last month all this started to burn.

This is an indescribably good thing. That’s what brush piles are for. The detritus from pruning, storm damage, and invasive growth are gathered and packed. Then you let combustion reduce it in volume, and turn it into useful ash. It becomes one component of the fertilizer you spread in your soul. This fire is necessary, and long overdue. Glory to God that it is now alight! And yes, I suspect it was He who struck the match.

(Image credit hotpot.ai)

I don’t fully know what this means. There is no looking away from a reaching, cleansing fire. You must pay close attention to flame and draft, and fuel. I am tending to the fire. Thankfully there’s a pleasant, misting rain, and the roar of flame is measured. I am cautious, but I am content. Things are progressing as He intends. In a while, the charcoal will smolder. White ash will swirl slowly down to rest on embers still too hot to handle. In that pleasant time, I can look ahead to what may be next.

I know this—words are coming. Prose and rhyme are coming. New ideas, for stagnant stories have already sprung into my brain. More importantly, the doubt is gone. I will write again. I will create stories and books. Prayerful resolve has yielded sure faith. This is the sense of undone that I feel. There is so much left to do, and I am looking forward to it!

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Today I have a poem for the paid subscribers. It asks childish questions about trauma and mental health. You can upgrade your subscription by clicking the thing. Monies are currently going toward a beef to fill our freezer. It’s from a local rancher, and scheduled to be processed the first week of June. Thank you to Tom, Roger, and Tom for being paid subscribers, and to Bill for being a founding member. I’m off to tend the flames.

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I have found many things to chase recently. Tomorrow has a deadline that involves giving a talk about mental health to some law enforcement professionals. I think I’m ready for it, and that’s good enough. The snakes who made their winter den under our house are trying to leave; to spend the summer outside. Too bad I blocked up their exit hole (which was their entrance hole) last week. So I am chasing them down for forceful eviction. The wind has been blowing hard for a week or so, but hasn’t brought any storms with it. So I am chasing the hay that I put down over grass seed, and wrangling sprinklers to sprout the sown fescue. My kids have grown taller. This means they are also faster and smarter. So I am chasing chaos and socks around and around. My wife has become more beautiful this season. I blame it on a long cultivated love. So I am chasing her with fervent glee!

None of these chases are cause to complain. There is good accomplished in each. I grouch a bit from time-to-time, but without gusto. You’ll notice that none of my projects are getting done. That troubles me in the usual way. I present my worry lightly, but it weighs heavy when I heft it. If memory serves, then next week will bring fresh direction and progress. In the joy of Easter, that song now held back, will erupt anew. I’m trying to follow the silence today, so I’ll be pointed in the right direction on Monday.

What are you about right now? I have been writing, but not prose. Gratefully, I have penned some poetry this month. Silence has been much on my mind, and so here are two poems about it. Thank you for reading! If you can support Interstellar Truck Stop with a paid subscription (hit the button and upgrade), I’ll use it for the upcoming purchase of a whole beef from a local producer. We have a big freezer, and it lasts about a year. Thank you to Nick, Roger, and Tom for support as Paid Subscribers, and Bill as a Founding Member. Please share this with someone who would like a regular bit of prose and poetry, or who likes discovering growing authors. Happy Easter!

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Silence

It’s been here all day
It’s waited and watched and seen
It’s held a place for me
It’s wondered what my busyness means

It’s kept its temper cold
It’s patient and stoic and calm
It’s had enough time to leave
But it hasn’t left me alone

I heard it but didn’t notice
It’s a superbly wonderful guest
I wanted to stop and visit
But this project will give me no rest

So I sit here wondering oddly
How could it go without seeing
I need it acutely right now
It’s precious because it is leaving

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I am in good shape, even though I am not writing as much as I want to. Specifically, I’m not using my hands to form words into stories and poems. I’m not producing anything authorly right now. It can be disheartening at times, but things are progressing. My brain is offering up new thoughts and ideas again. These range from completely new ideas, to new growth in old story arcs. Both are sorely needed, and appreciated.

Pic courtesy hotpot.ai

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For about a year I felt like a faker. I had written many tens-of-thousands of words, and they didn’t stack up very well. If I quit, they never would. But my brain wouldn’t identify the path out of mediocrity. It was maddening at times.

The truth is, I am bootstrapping an author career on a shoestring budget. It is murderously hard work. It’s just me, you, the creative work, and God. I am grateful to be here doing the work. Thank you all for reading. Special thanks to Nick, Roger, and Tom for being paid subscribers, and Bill for being a Founding Member. Thanks be to God for being in good shape!

Today I have a prompt driven story behind the paywall. I like how it marries clinging nostalgia with terrible grief. As always, there is hope. The prompt was, “Write a dialogue between a widow and a window cleaner.” I didn’t do exactly that. Enjoy.

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A Soul’s Picture Window

Gentle rays fell on the comforter. The retro flip clock slapped another minute down. Down the block a dog barked hello. It was none of these. Lisa stirred, then stretched, only to pause in the middle of a yawn. A thing, something, made her alert.

She shoved the pillow against the beadwork headboard, and settled back to wait. Her silver chestnut hair fell askew across her shoulders, but she waited. The clock slapped another minute, and she waited. The sun peaking through the trellis made her squint, and still she waited.

A soft squeak made her eyes dart to the open bedroom door. In the living room motes hung suspended over the floral patterned couch. Around the corner in the kitchen, the refrigerator shuddered to a stop. Another silky squeak, and then a shadow flitted through the motes.

Dave? One mote sparkled. No! Dave was not coming back. Grief gouged open the hole in her heart. She clutched a hand to her chest, and twisted the soft fabric of the too big Metallica T-shirt she wore. A tear slipped down. Dave was gone. She knew that. What was it about mornings that made her forget?

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We are traveling for the holidays. Pray for us.

Gratitude drives me on today. Thank you for supporting Interstellar Truck Stop! I will rest when I have given you something here—a holiday gift. Nothing of the brightly wrapped ribbon-and-bow kind. It’s a story. One that I truly enjoyed from first read. This time, there is no paywall. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all!

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Art courtesy hotpot.ai

Now, Phillip Granath takes you on a date night excursion in a modern, harmless dystopia. The service is chic, your table exclusive, and your companion elite. I think you will find the conversation charming! It’s a singular look into all the future could hold.

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Social Credit

By Phillip D. Granath

Johnathan’s transport pod glided off the interstate and into the neon glow of the downtown social district. Here the streets were lined with a wide assortment of gathering places. Restaurants, theaters and night clubs were common, with signs advertising the usual fair of intoxicants and debauchery. Other venues were oddly specific: One club was dedicated to discussing French melodramas. Another to the group-watching of historical sporting events. Several blocks had even been converted into an old fashioned amusement park, complete with a carousel and bumper cars. But while the district had no shortage of entertainment possibilities, all of the attractions held one thing in common, they were empty.

Up ahead, a new social club came into view. It had high grey walls and even battlements intended to make it look like a stone castle. On its roof rode a huge holographic knight on horseback. Predicting Johnathan’s interest, the pod slowed as it approached. The knight was lifting his sword into the air, and its point projected a floating script in three-foot letters.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“A meeting place for players of The Knights of Avalon,” the AI read aloud for him.

Johnathan continued to stare at the knight as the pod slowly passed by. Monitoring his every movement, Aurora calculated his interest level and whispered from his earbud.

“Would you like to visit that club sometime? Meet some of your guild mates in person, perhaps?”

Johnathan turned away from the window.

“Why would I want to do that?”

Sensing his unease the AI shifted tactics.

“You’re a Knight of the 12th Order, one of the most senior on your server. I’m sure that the others would love to meet you. Talk to you. Learn from you. Maybe even find other things that you have in common outside of the game.”

It was true. Johnathan had a record few of his fellow players could match. He had fought many mythical beasts, defeated enemies in single PvP combat and even slain an ancient dragon. His guild had completed every seasonal quest line for the past 10 years, and now claimed ownership over several sizable castles and keeps in the online world of Avalon. All of that and he was barely 30 years old.

“Why would I need to meet them in a club in person, when we meet at the guildhall in Avalon every day?”

A few minutes later the pod slowed and pulled up to the curb. Johnathan looked out the window in confusion.

“Aurora, why did we stop here? Is this it? This doesn’t look like the place you showed me.”

“The restaurant is half a block down the street. If you look you can see the sign from here,” she replied.

Johnathan could see the sign. It was red, white and green and in the shape of a forgotten flag.

“But then why did we stop here?”

“A little physical activity would help boost your daily credit score.”

“I don’t want to walk.”

“It’s only half a block.”

“Aurora, just take me to the restaurant.”

“Johnathan, I have to warn you that you are becoming dangerously close to violating your social contract’s minimum activity requirements. Additionally, at this rate, you will not have the social credit required for next month’s Knights of Avalon scheduled update.”

Johnathan’s body suddenly went rigid, as if he’d been struck. He’d never actually been physically hit before but he just assumed this is what it must feel like.

“I could miss the update?”

“Yes Jonathan, which is why I added this social event to your calendar.”

“How many credits is this worth?”

“1000.”

“And how much do I need for the update?”

“750.”

“Aurora you know that I’m not good with numbers. Will that be enough for the update or not?”

“Yes, but you should still increase your physical activity.”

“Aurora, just drive me to the restaurant. I want to get this over with.”

The AI relented and the pod began moving, coming to rest again just in front of the restaurant. It was modeled after a 1930s eatery in Sicily, or so Aurora told him. Johnathan had no idea where that was but it really didn’t matter. She had assured him that the kitchen and the menu were fully automated and unchanged from the food he enjoyed at home. That was reassuring but as the door of the pod opened, Johnathan felt his courage suddenly fleeing from him.

He didn’t know this place. He didn’t know this person. This all seemed completely unfair. Why hadn’t he just walked once a week like he had planned, or gone to the park a few times? This seemed somehow so much worse.

“Is everything alright Johnathan? There has been a sudden increase in your heart rate.”

“Do I really have to do this?”

“Think about the social credits Johnathan: 250 credits for eating a meal outside of your home. 500 credits for eating it with another person. 1000 for going on a date with a member of the opposite sex.”

Johnathan was nodding along slowly, not really understanding the math of it all. If Aurora said this was the easiest way to score the credits he needed for the update then he believed her.

“And Johnathan, just think what happens if you actually enjoy spending time with her: 2000 credits for a second date. 3000 for a third. 5000 if you two copulate.”

Johnathan swallowed hard. He had never really considered the idea of dating someone, much less intercourse. The thought was both tantalizing and yet terrifying. He was of course no stranger to sex. At home he had a fully interactive VR suite, and a virtual harem of AI companions that he enjoyed regularly. But the idea of having sex with a real person, a flesh and blood woman, somehow seemed wrong—unsanitary.

“I…I don’t know about this.”

“Johnathan. All you have to do is sit down across the table and have a meal with her. I’ll be with you the whole time, just like always. You can do this. You’re a Knight of the 12^th Order remember.”

“I’m… I’m a knight. This…this…is nothing,” he stammered.

“Go now, Sir Knight.”

Johnathan stepped out of the pod, his heart beating wildly now. His courage nearly failed him again half way across the sidewalk but Aurora’s soothing voice in his ear pushed him onward.

“You are a knight and you are going to meet your fair maiden.”

The door to the restaurant opened automatically and on uncertain legs Johnathan staggered through. The doors shut behind him a moment later and that was all that kept him from fleeing. A person, a real live person, stood just inside the doorway. The man wore a black and white suit and stood behind a small podium. Johnathan had of course seen and even interacted with real people before but seeing one so unexpectedly, and this close up, startled him.

“Hello…there,” the man said.

“Hiiiiii…”

“You’re…Mr…Adams.”

Johnathan nodded in reply and both men stood in silence for a moment as if unsure what to do next. Then the man in the suit raised a finger to his ear and upon receiving his instructions said, “My name is Phillip…I’m… I’m the maître d.”

Johnathan nodded, pretending as if he knew what that was.

“I…I tell people where they should sit and…and take them to their table.”

Phillip’s words were delivered in an odd but familiar rhythm and Johnathan could tell Aurora was whispering in his ear, telling him exactly what he needed to say. It felt reassuring but Johnathan still couldn’t quite get over the oddity of the situation.

“Why? Why do you do this? Is this…is this a job?”

The maître d’s eyes narrowed at the unexpected question, “What? No! Why would anyone want to do a job?”

Phillip looked insulted by the question but then he paused, undoubtedly listening to Aurora whispering in his ear again.

“It’s…it’s like a gimmick for the restaurant—real people greeting you, or something. Aurora says that it’s good for people. To see other people I guess. I don’t really know” he explained. “I only do it a few nights a month and it gives me all the social credits I need.”

Johnathan nodded, just happy that the interaction was over.

Equally relieved, Phillip turned sharply and began to walk back into the restaurant. For a moment Johnathan just stood there, unsure of what to do before Aurora buzzed in his ear.

“Follow him.”

The restaurant itself was quite large, with floors that looked like polished marble and a ceiling decorated with intricately carved wooden panels. And while four or perhaps five of Johnathan’s domiciles could have fit inside, the restaurant only held six tables. These were placed well away from one another ensuring that each patron had as much social distancing as possible.

As Johnathan followed he only saw one other patron. A man in his late 30s, wearing a crumpled suit and sitting alone. The man glanced up at Johnathan as they passed, his face held a look of sudden fear. However, his expression quickly shifted to one of relief, when the man realized that they weren’t coming to his table. He turned back to his meal and began eating as quickly as he could, as if he was in a hurry to leave.

“That’s the other guy,” Phillip said.

“The who?”

“The other guy that showed up tonight.”

“Alone?”

“Aurora schedules people to meet here every night but almost no one ever shows up.”

Johnathan nodded but he still wasn’t sure what the point of all of this was.

The Maître d led Johnathan to a table near the center of the restaurant. Then Phillip turned and walked away without another word.

“Sit down, try and relax before she gets here,” Aurora suggested.

Hesitantly Johnathan took his seat but almost immediately he realized that something was wrong. He glanced around the room and there wasn’t a screen anywhere. Not on any of the walls that he could see or holo-projections suspended in the air above him. Surely there must be a screen in the table then. That idiot Maître d must have covered it up by accident, he decided. Johnathan hastily brushed aside his place setting, sending utensils spilling onto the floor. But to his dismay, all he found was a solid table underneath. What was he supposed to be watching? What was going to entertain him while he waited?

“Aurora, this is stupid. I hate this place. I’m leaving.”

Johnathan began to stand but Aurora’s next words froze him in place.

“She’s here.”

Evelyn entered the restaurant like a force of nature. She was a whirlwind storming across the restaurant. She wore a sundress that billowed around her, a thunderhead of bright colors and odd shapes. Johnathan could see Phillip halfheartedly following in her wake before giving up and returning to his podium. As she approached the table Johnathan fell back into his chair. Too intimidated to flee he simply froze in place. The woman sat down heavily into the chair across from him and set her very large hand bag on the table between them.

“Introduce yourself,” Aurora whispered.

Johnathan looked down at his lap and shook his head. He was certain the AI was telling the woman across from him the exact same instructions.

“In a minute!” Evelyn hissed.

Johnathan cringed, unsure of what he had done. Then he realized that this woman wasn’t snapping at him but Aurora. He risked a glance up and found that the huge handbag hid her from him completely and he was flooded with relief. But then, from the other side of the bag she began whispering.

“Mommy is so, so, sorry. I know how my little love hates the big nasty bag. But what was mommy to do? I couldn’t leave the love of my life at home, now could I?”

In response to Evelyne’s words came a “toot,” as if someone had played a single note on the world’s smallest trumpet!

For the briefest of moments Johnathan’s curiosity overcame his anxiety. He leaned forward in his chair and hesitantly reached out in hopes of peeking around the bag. Just then Evelyn moved the bag to the side and he slammed back into his chair.

“Do not touch him!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I won’t!”

“Introduce yourself,” Aurora whispered.

Johnathan opened his mouth to speak but then his eyes glanced again at the large bag. From this angle he could see that the front of the bag was translucent. And inside, staring directly at him and waving its little trunk, was a 12 inch tall African elephant. Complete with tusks no bigger than his pinky fingers.

“That’s…that’s…that’s a Pachy-Pet. Isn’t it?”

For a moment Evelyn just stared at him and then begrudgingly she nodded her head.

“I’ve…I’ve heard about them. But I’ve never really seen one before. In person I mean.”

“This is my baby,” Evelyn announced.

Her words held a fierceness that made it clear that there was no room for debate on the matter and Johnathan surrendered the point immediately, nodding in agreement.

“Aren’t they terribly expensive? Like…like a lot …of thousands of social credits?”

Evelyn nodded again, “Like a lot, a lot.”

“This is good Johnathan. Keep her talking about her pet,” Aurora whispered.

“Does it eat…people food?”

“He’s not an IT! His name is Samson!”

“I’m sorry. That’s what I meant. What does Samson eat?”

“Very specialized things. Grasses and leaves and stuff. Only the best for my little man.”

Johnathan nodded his head, “In Avalon, some of the knights like to ride elephants.”

Evelyn eye’s narrowed, “In what?”

“In Avalon, it’s a place. I mean…it’s a…well it’s a game.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“One of those gamer boys,” she replied with a smirk.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let me guess: A space explorer? Maybe a superhero type? A vampire hunter even?”

Evelyn’s words held more than a hint of mockery

“Or do you just jump from game to game, quitting whenever things get a little challenging? What do they call those people? A casual? You’re a casual gamer, aren’t you?”

Johnathan leapt to his feet, sending his chair spilling over backwards. His heart raced in his chest, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had only been insulted like this twice before and on both those occasions he had resolved the issue in single combat. However, here in the real world he found himself suddenly confused as how to respond.

“I’m not…a filthy casual,” he blurted. “A casual wouldn’t last a minute in the wilds of Avalon. Players solo for years, grinding away level by level until they can even be considered for a knighthood in our guild.”

Evelyn’s eyes went wide at his sudden display of passion but the corners of her mouth held the barest hints of a smile and Johnathan suddenly realized that she was toying with him.

“Sit down and apologize,” Aurora whispered.

Johnathan righted his chair and sat down again but he didn’t apologize. He glanced up at Evelyn but found her whispering quietly to Samson, pointedly ignoring him. Johnathan considered just getting up and leaving but just then the food arrived.

He wouldn’t storm out he decided. He would show her that a Knight of Avalon didn’t just quit and run away like some dirty casual. He would eat and then, he would leave.

The auto-server placed the plates of food in front of them and then with Aurora’s voice announced, “Chic-Nuggs, fries and choco-pudding for the gentleman along with a cola.” Johnathan nodded, it was his usual dinner.

“And for the lady: pancakes covered with peanut butter and syrup, paired with a dry martini.”

Evelyn picked up the drink first and took a long sip. The auto-server retreated from the table and the pair ate in silence—each happy to ignore the other. As they ate Evelyn whispered to Samson in a steady stream of baby talk, only pausing to order Aurora to bring her another martini. Occasionally she glanced in Johnathan’s direction. With no screens in sight Johnathan embraced his boredom and found himself content to stare blankly across the restaurant. The lone diner he had seen earlier was gone and Phillip was nowhere to be seen. It was just the two of them in the restaurant now. As soon as he finished his nuggs, it would be just this stupid girl he told himself.

“You know, you’ve stayed longer than most.”

Johnathan was so surprised by Evelyn’s words that he was immediately confused, “What?”

“Most boys leave before the food,” she said.

“Well do you try and insult them all before that?”

Evelyn gave him a little smile and took another sip of her drink.

“Wait! You do? Why?”

“It’s the easiest way to make them leave.”

“So when you called me a casual…”

Evelyn cut him off with a wave.

“I don’t even know what that means,” she confessed. “It’s simple really. If he’s a gamer, you call him a casual. If he’s a gym-type then you to tell him that his legs are too skinny. And if he’s one of the scholarly types then you just keep cutting them off, don’t even give him a chance to speak. It drives them crazy.”

“Why? Why go on dates at all then?” Johnathan asked.

“Same reason as you I bet. I just need the credits. Samson is lonely, so I’m saving up to get him a girlfriend.”

The tiny pachyderm let out a little toot of joy. Evelyn give him a big smile and then finished her drink in a single gulp.

“Boys just get in the way. I can’t think of a single thing that they are good for to be honest. Aurora takes care of us. Samson is all the family I could ever need and I have a VR suite just like everyone else does for when I get, well…you know.”

She said the last part with a little smile.

“I do know!” he said nodding along in agreement. “In fact, that’s exactly what I tried to tell Aurora. Why do I need to date anyone? I have my game and I’m happy. If it wasn’t for her stupid little credit things I wouldn’t go out at all.”

Evelyn laughed, “She really is silly isn’t she?”

“It’s not like she can actually make us do anything.”

“All she can do is threaten. In fact I heard that a lot of people ignore her credit system entirely. They never leave their domiciles and she still has to give them whatever they want. Sure they don’t get all of the latest media and what not—and she would never let them have a Pachy-pet like Samson—but they still get by just fine ignoring her. ”

“People do that? Where did you hear that?”

“I’m not sure, probably from one of you silly boys,” she said with a grin before she took a sip of her third drink.

Grinning himself Johnathan glanced around conspiratorially before he whispered, “I’ve dropped my ear bud in the toilet three times.”

“Oooo…really?” Evelyn said with disgust.

Then pressing a finger into his ear Johnathan momentarily smothered the earbud before he added “And not once was it by accident.”

Evelyn laughed, “You didn’t!”

“Johnathan? What happened? I lost audio for a moment” Aurora buzzed.

“I did and the last time it didn’t go down all the way, and so for half a day I could still hear her in there faintly yelling at me—like she was a ghost trapped at the bottom of a well or something. And I just had to spend the rest of the day pretending like I couldn’t hear her, and that I was innocently looking around the domicile for my missing earbud.”

Evelyn let out a laugh that could only be described as a cackle. The sudden outburst caused little Samson to let out a toot in alarm, but Johnathan quickly joined in. It was a deep belly laugh, the kind that he couldn’t remember having in a long time.

“You are trouble,” Evelyn said smiling at him as she finished her latest drink.

Johnathan nodded smiling sheepishly in return. For some reason he found himself enjoying the attention.

Evelyn paused for a moment as if considering something and then spoke.

“You know, I’ve never done the second date thing. But it is worth a lot more social credits.”

Johnathan nodded in agreement, “Like more than a thousand or something I think.”

“Samson likes to go to the park.”

“I…I love…walking in the park.”

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I wrote today. The word count added up to almost one thousand, and surely crossed that threshold with this post. It’s nice to know I can still produce such quantity, of a quality I want to publish. Those grand words molded a story I’ve been working on for a while, into a finished form.

Elaborate castings aside, the plain of it is I had to write today. I had to write all week, but life kept getting in the way. Sick kids and sick selves have a way of delaying everything. But you already wrote this week you say? Yes, and I am grateful for that. Promises to self are demanding things though, and I demand a longer story for the Founding Members. This is it.

The story is an elevated read, with an ethereal tone. I’m not sure what genre this falls into, but it’s alien. There is catharsis inside, and as always, hope.

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If you’d like to join Bill as a Founding Member, you can read it today! Founding Members get longer exclusive stories on an extended cycle. They often coincide with holidays. I’m off to tackle other life things, in an attempt to earn more writing time. Thank you for reading!

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Yet, if you walk south far enough, summer is about to have it’s say. I remember first becoming aware that Australians celebrate Christmas in the summer. Contemplating Santa in the sun made me sad. I also remember when I first encountered death. I was about seven.

I had seen death many times before this, but never felt its sting. I lived on the farm at the time. We raised beef, hunted deer, dealt with pests, and generally survived. Death was only a fact I knew. I was a novice. Then one of our neighbors died. She was an old woman, who still cooked on a wood stove. She was brilliantly kind to us kids. Her smile is most of what remains in my memory of her.

I was not prepared for what I felt when I heard of her passing. A long cold sword plunged deep into my heart. That instant of shock and pain, brought copious tears. I didn’t understand why I was hurting, nor what had hurt me. I suspect death is never gently introduced. Because it was of a new kind, the pain lasted long.

art courtesy of hotpot.ai

I have met death many times in the years since. Each reintroduction hurts as the first. I have even become a dealer of death, in certain ways. Today I dispatched a snake trying to get in my front door. We all become such—even unawares.

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It’s a somber topic, but a human one. What I have included for the paid subscribers is a poem reflecting what happened to me after Eleanor’s death. Thank you Nick, Roger, and Tom for supporting my writing. Bill, it was good to share coffee with you recently! I remain grateful for your support as a Founding Member. I’m working on that longer holiday story. Soon.

I am also working on a couple short stories, inspired by writing prompts. I had hope they would be ready for this writing time, but they proved far more stubborn than my hope. One is an eerie romp through love in the 1980s, and the other is an open world exploration of evil. Neither story has yet decided how it wants to end. They remind me of my teenagers.

Thank you for reading! Please remember your gratitude as we dive into another busy holiday season. Know of my daily prayers for you, my readers. Perhaps “spare a prayer” for the dead this month.

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The recent recalibration of my writing rhythm is so that I can finish repairing one of our bathrooms. It’s quite the crumbly cookie in a lot of ways. We live in an old one room school house. The bathroom in question is where one of the old coat rooms was. Some of the wall studs are over 100 years old. The floor joists were ALL installed more than a century ago. Some of the new ones have now been in place for only a month. They are the whipper-snappers in this quaint place.

Importantly, there is no crawl space in this section of the house. All plumbing and joist repair must be done from above. It’s a great confounder at times, and often an impediment to progress. It will get done, but it takes ALL of my attention to do it properly. There will be no quick fixes if I get it wrong. And let me tell you—my anxiety loves that possibility!

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Today though, there is no school for the kids. Blessedly, my teenage son has homework he must complete, so I have space to sit here and write. He’s been awfully quiet actually, so he may have fallen asleep. I’ll go wake him (if needed) after this.

In late night insomnia attacks, and bits of broken other time, I have been working on a quiet space-cowboy story. I really like it. I look forward to sharing it with you all. I also had time today to send some feedback to Phil about a story he’s been working on. I look forward to sharing that one as well.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for understanding my new writing rhythm. I am grateful for Nick, Roger, and Tom’s continued support as paid subscribers, and Bill’s solid love as a Founding Member. Here is a poem about the yearning I still feel, when I look at the stars too long.

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What was also obvious was growth. I approached yesterday’s writing in a different manner. I was measured, composed—not frantic. In the past it has been a rush to get words out fast enough. Every moment writing used to feel like a dam bursting. If you played in a creek as a kid, you know what I mean. The sticks, rocks, and mud give way slowly at first. Soon though, the trickle is a torrent. It is thrilling, and chaotic. It was so with my writing.

That chaos didn’t produce very good stories though. I spent ten times the amount of effort in editing. Ideas got lost and jumbled. Too many details became multi-headed hydra. Dialogue disappeared into flabby exposition. I struggled to turn my exuberance into something an audience wanted to read.

Yesterday was punctuated by pauses and consideration. I wrote two scenes of dialogue, with another planned to finish the tale. There was only one bit of exposition to quickly set the scene. In the dam analogy, a reasonable amount of water was released downstream, and catastrophic flooding was avoided.

I still need to work on things. Action scenes, for example, remain a thorn in my side. With this new tempo, I have the time to learn how they need presenting. It is no surprise that given time, and rest, I’ve improved as a writer. I am glad to be here, and see the growth.

Image courtesy of hotpot.ai

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Going forward, that means stories here on Interstellar Truck Stop will continue, albeit at a less frenzied pace. I like to think it was good foresight to promise myself (and you) regular bits of fiction, poetry, and prayer. It leaves room for the kind of improvement that means slowing down.

Thank you all for subscribing to this Substack! I heard rumor of a coming story from Philip Granath, so look forward to that. Thanks to paid subscribers Nick, Roger, and Tom, and to founding member Bill. Fellas, you’re helping me turn this into a job.

Today’s bit is a poem of prayer proportions. Enjoy!

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My heart isn’t physically attractive or cognitively intelligent, but the one who fits this hole is certainly so. This sounds like the beginnings of what must become a poem. I am not committed to that future. Sometimes bits and phrases exist properly, without necessarily fitting into a grander narrative. My feelings say that is the case with this.

We dropped my oldest daughter off at college the weekend before last. I am not the same person I was, last time I wrote here. I am better somehow, for having this hole. My feelings want to sit quietly with the above two lines. They don’t want to be left alone, but they don’t want to talk about it. They just want to pause.

I don’t have time to pause. That is a lie that also feels real. The appropriate word here is turmoil. I am excited for my daughter’s future, and the possibilities open before her. I look forward with hopeful curiosity, to what she will become. I am happy for her! And, the light shining forth from the hole she left, casts all my mistakes and failures as a father in stark relief. My joy is not homogenous. It is truly joy, but it needs some sorting.

It is proper to pause. As it is surely proper to write. I am in honest turmoil today. Perhaps turmoil is the reason for this gap in posting. I don’t even know what bit of prose, poetry, or prayer I am going to share with you. I best get to looking in my collected bits—be right back.

Bless the Lord and his workings! No, really—this will work, weirdly enough.

This bit of flash fiction quite delights me! The setting is common, but the situation is absurd. One character’s struggle with kindness could take a bad turn. The other’s naivete harks of hope. Anyone ever notice how I often write of hope? Me neither.

Continued gratitude to founding member Bill, and to paid subscribers Nick, Roger, and Tom, for supporting Interstellar Truck Stop. Appreciation to you seventeen free subscribers for reading my musings. Please share with folks who might enjoy a regular bit of fiction, poetry, and prayer!

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If you want more of Phil’s storytelling, he has three books available on Amazon. You can check out his author page at this link:

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B01KOPO20Y

Thanks to Nick, Roger, and Tom for being paid subscribers here, and to Bill, the sole Founding Member! If you’d like to support regular bits of speculative fiction, poetry, and prayer, click the linky-do below.

Just Survive

From the ridge above the descent had looked easy enough. Marcus had picked out a path down between the scree fields, hugging the larger boulders and broken stone. The sky had been clear then and his halcyon view of the legendary Rockies had been nothing short of breathtaking. But in the early afternoon, grey clouds had settled into the valley, followed by a light but persistent rain. Now the larger stones that had once seemed the safer choice were slick and the old man was forced to slow down—to consider each step carefully. A broken bone was of course out of the question but a twisted ankle would just as easily end his sojourn.

Marcus was soaked by the time he reached the valley floor. The buckskin pants and leather moccasins he had selected for durability did little to stop the cold, while his synthetic hiking shirt proved little better. Marcus paused beneath the shelter of an evergreen and holding his hands before him he watched as they trembled ever so slightly. A deeply weary but also satisfying look spread across his face.

“Hypothermia: A physiological condition brought about when the body’s core temperature drops below 35 degrees Celsius. Initial symptoms include uncontrollable shaking, particularly in the extremities.”

Marcus curled his hands into fists as if he was afraid that this new sensation would escape him. Then smiling broadly he announced, “I need a campfire.”

The man began to move through the trees in earnest. Everything was damp from the rain of course but surely a fire would dry it all quickly enough he reasoned. Marcus began grabbing handfuls of twigs and leaves wherever he could find them. These he deposited in a small pile before going to retrieve the stones. He selected a dozen and ringed the wet pile of combustibles just like the images had shown. Marcus then retrieved the fire lighter from his pocket. The device was roughly cylindrical in shape but small enough to fit easily within the palm of his hand. It had a red plastic button on one end right next to a small metal cylinder. He held the fire lighter in his hand awkwardly, trying to place his thumb as he had been instructed. When he cautiously rolled his thumb across the cylinder, his efforts were rewarded by a few small sparks. While the discovery was exhilarating, it was nothing compared to his exultation when he found that when he rolled the wheel and pressed the red button simultaneously a small flame sprung to life.

“I did it! I did it,” he exclaimed!

Marcus held the lighter up, its flickering flame testament to his achievement—to his independence.

“Do you see?”

It was then that his new discovery turned on him, the small flame burning his thumb.

“Frack!” he cursed, instinctively tossing the lighter away.

While Marcus’ victory with the lighter fired up his pride, it had done nothing to warm his body. Even as he bent to retrieve the lighter his body followed his hands that were now shaking more noticeably. The old man’s breathes were coming through clenched teeth. Moreover, each breathe was now quite visible. Marcus realized that the sunlight and with it the ambient temperature was fading quickly. Scooping up the lighter the old man turned back to his task in earnest, intent on turning the bundle of damp sticks and leaves into a campfire.

For over an hour he toiled to grow the lighter’s meager flame into something, anything that would keep him warm. At first he tried lighting the twigs and leaves together. No luck.

Then he tried lighting the sticks, holding the flame directly on the bark. But this only darkened the wood which still begrudgingly refused to ignite.

Then he switched tactics and concentrated on the deciduous leaves. The green and especially yellow leaves darkened and curled under the lighter’s flame and while they produced prodigious amount of smoke, again, actual flames remained elusive.

Marcus changed his approach again, this time stripping bits of bark from the wet sticks and adding these to the smoking leaves. It was tedious and painful. His fingers were growing numb; all except his thumb which now sported an impressive blister from the use of the lighter. The old man’s progress was hindered by the fact that he kept dropping the lighter. It wasn’t until his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t spark the device at all that he realized that he may be in real trouble.

“No…no…I just…need a…minute.”

He shoved his hands into his arm pits and standing again, began to vigorously stomp his feet.

“I just…need…to get the….blood flowing,” he stammered.

Just then, as Marcus staggered back and forth in the rain, the pile of soaking wet sticks and leaves burst into flames. For a moment, the old man stood stunned, his face bathed in warmth and light. A smile spread across his face. And then, as realization struck him.

“No! No!” he shouted. “I refuse!”

With a savage kick he scattered the small fire before turning and fleeing deeper into the forest, “I refusssseeeee!”

Rain pelted his face. Branches caught and pulled at his arms. Thick brush scratched at his legs, but Marcus ran on. He ran until his lungs burned and his arms and legs had grown numb. He ran until he was truly lost. Collapsing under a thick tree he wrapped his arms around his body and squeezing as tightly as he could tried to force his body to stop shaking. The sun had nearly set he was sure, but under the shade of the forest night always came early.

It was then that through the trees Marcus saw the light. A soft yellow glow that had nothing to do with the sun, or the fire he had abandoned. The old man’s curiosity momentarily overcame his discomfort and he crept forward, his arms still wrapped around him but the chill momentarily forgotten.

It was a cabin he realized. A cabin made completely out of wooden logs, with a rough cut door and a single small window, just like in the vids. An inviting yellow glow spilled from the window. It was like something out of one of his dreams; something out of a golden and distant past. He took a single step forward and the door opened, swinging wide on silent hinges. Even from the edge of the tree line Marcus could see the blazing flames in the rock fireplace. The wooden chair wrapped in an inviting wool blanket and a bowl of warm stew, all waiting for him.

For a moment his body betrayed him, and he took two halting steps forward before he managed to stop himself.

“I said No!”

Again he turned to flee but by this time he was staggering instead of running. The cold had made his legs forget how to function. Still he pressed on, stumbling from tree to tree just to stay upright. It was a desperate and doomed attempt at escape, but even as he fled they tempted him:

A parka, with a fur lined hood hung from a low tree branch but he staggered past without a second glance.

A tent, complete with bedroll beckoned him and he cursed its very existence as he pushed on.

A cave, that rose from the ground in the middle of the forest in the most unnatural and inexplicable manner.

The old man scoffed even at this and then when he turned to look away, the ground fell out from beneath him.

It was a steep sided gorge, one that hadn’t existed until a moment ago. He was sliding on his back caught in a small avalanche of loose stones and shale. He fought for purchase grabbing at every root and stone within reach but his shaking limbs failed him and he plunged into the raging river below.

It was as if he had never known cold before. He fought for breath and only managed to inhale the cold even deeper. He struggled for his very life as the freezing water pulled him under and spun him about. Marcus was helpless against the indomitable strength of nature. He was just another leaf caught in the current. The river didn’t care if he lived or died. Even in his flailing the petulant student welcomed the long overdue lesson.

“Yes…this,” he coughed.

He didn’t see the stone that he struck, but he certainly felt the hot knife of pain that cut through his hypothermia addled brain. In the blinding spray he groped for the stone weakly only to have it ripped from his hands a moment later.

“It’s useless,” he realized.

And though the struggle would gain him nothing, still he struggled. The knowledge of his futility had no power over his body now. As he drowned, useless echoed through his very being.

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It was just a short story, from a small online magazine I follow. I haven’t taken the time to remove my email from their distribution list. It took about ten minutes to consume. At THE END I was not better off. My flow state was congested. My skin crawled unreasonably. I wanted to scold my curiosity, but knew I was really to blame.

I drank a tall, TALL glass of water. I ate a couple small oranges. I paced around the house until the restlessness eased. I contemplated going to stand in the rain. Thankfully, the cause of my discomfort soon came to mind. The story presented negative emotions as virtues. That made it pathogenic to my creativity.

It was a clever setting, and I applauded the elongated timescale. I enjoyed the anthropomorphizing of both gigantic rocks and ancient whales. I approved of its tasteful use of magic. But, from the start, something rankled. And at the climax, my eyes confirmed what my nose knew.

The long oppressed heroin would resolutely stoke her anger, until it turned to hatred, and with that strength, slowly ridicule her captor to defeat. In the ensuing subterfuge, she might face discovery and destruction, but it would be worth it. It was awful.

Negative emotion, being presented as heroic virtue, repulses my spirit. I do enough of that rationalizing in my everyday, and not to my credit. Stories should call me (directly or indirectly) to betterment. I need to have a chat with my curiosity shortly.

Today I have a quirky story for you about tears in the fabric of space time. There’s a strong heroin, divergent timelines, bureaucratic oppression, future technology misfires, and tacos. Join Nick, Roger, and new subscriber Tom, and read it today. Thanks to my subscribers, and Founding Member Bill, for supporting the stories here!

Also, there will be more from Phillip Granath soon!

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Helping my daughter become independent is tumultuous, honest work—necessary. Freedom increases, but so do mistakes. Hand-holding decreases, but so does predictability. The winds of chaos come in gusts, lulls, and tree snapping straight-line squalls. Yesterday I was asked, “What do you recommend?”

It’s not the satisfaction of being honored that I felt, but rather the relief of knowing where my daughter’s brain was oriented. In this thing, she simply wanted my advice, so she could follow it. She believed I had her best interests in mind. She didn’t yet want to venture out into the unknown of—choosing new tires for her car. This is familiar territory, and I know what to do.

Today we are going to get tires for her college car. Which is what puts me in a time crunch. I have exactly until she gets back from running eight miles, to write this. It is a reminder that this season of being Dad (instead of author) is not over. Noah made it through by trusting in God, so I will too.

She’s back!

Enjoy this poem about the brutal beauty of home. Share this post if you know someone interested in a regular bit of fiction, poetry, and faith. Thanks Bill, Nick, and Roger for your continued support! Click the button if you want to join them as a paid subscriber.

Yes, I’m ready to go dear.

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If you like the sound of longer bits of speculative fiction, you can upgrade, join Bill, and become a pillar of growth for Interstellar Truck Stop.

Thank you all for supporting my work!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!! A blessed holiday to you and yours.

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This story touches on the mechanical nature of war. You have heard it called duty. Duty is a tidy word steeped in honor and respect. This is an insight into living out duty. How far does the humanity of duty extend?

Soldat

By: Phillip D. Granath

Amongst the rubble of broken buildings, the Soldat crouched in silence. Though his worn poncho would mask his heat signature, it did little to protect him from the cold. The parts of him that were still flesh and blood shivered, while the parts that were steel cared not at all.

“It’s cold. I wonder what month it is.”

The errant thought triggered his neural implant.

NOT MISSION RELEVANT

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Phillip Granath was born and raised in Palmer, Alaska. He served as an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Technician in the United States Air Force, including three deployments to Iraq. He is a graduate of the University of Alaska Anchorage with multiple degrees in both English and History, and has nearly completed his postgraduate studies in teaching. He lives in Eagle River, Alaska with his amazing wife, three kids and a great Dane named Charlotte. His published works include the novels To Cross a Wasteland, Hell's Highwaymen and The Road North.

Phil and I have been helping each other write better stories for a few years now. I thoroughly enjoy his style, and bold characters. He has a knack for settings, that fire my imagination! I am honored to publish some of his words here. Because of paid subscribers and founding members, I can actually pay Phil for his work! Thank you Nick, Roger, and Bill for your continued support.

Look for Phil’s prose in upcoming posts. Share this with folks who would like a regular bit of speculative fiction, poetry, and prayer straight to their inbox. You can further support Interstellar Truck Stop by becoming a paid subscriber, or founding member.

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What I have for you today is a drabble (exactly 100 words), from a difficult writing prompt. The prompt (below—in italics) is hard because of autism. I struggle to understand relationships. It is something I seek to improve in my writing. Relationships turn a technical treatise into a story. I’m starting with tropes.

As wine turns to vinegar, so their relationship soured. The sweet fermentation of intoxicating joy, unexpectedly interrupted by the appearance of a mother. The sugar and yeast don't know their honeymoon is over, until it's too late.

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I have been a bit absent here, but it’s only seasonal. My other job has been calling urgently for some weeks. I must answer the call.

“Hey, Dad?”

Today I have a minute, and two things to share. An author friend of mine will be contributing to Interstellar Truck Stop. He writes speculative fiction also. We have been sharing stories, and feedback for a while now. I will introduce him properly, soon.

One neat thing is: because of you, I will be able to pay him for his stories! It amounts to a token, but is still proper. So, thank you to my paid subscribers and founding members. All three of you make this possible.

Free subscribers can always upgrade, and support more opportunities like this. Thank you for reading—everyone!

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The second thing is this winding bit of poetry, about a tree growing out of an abandoned silo. I first encountered it, over a decade ago, on Lower McDowell Creek Road. Like any good backroad, Lower McDowell winds and whoops. It is flanked by family farms and steep ditches. I have towed a trailer down it, and the tires don’t fit between the yellow lines and gravel. My daughter found a deer antler shed, at a stop along it.

Go, turn onto a backroad, and explore. Look for curious things, and feed your soul. Go get lost. Go wander and wonder. Now, I have to go, but I hope you’ll enjoy this!

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This week, my oldest graduates high school. I am very proud of her. In the fall she is off to study biochemistry. This summer, she has to make ready for the unknown. I will help her. Before any of that, we have to pass through the gate. Graduation is on Saturday. Baccalaureate was last night. We are standing on the threshold. More accurately, she is standing between the pillars, alternately glancing forward and back. I am nearby setting up tables, hanging banners, and greeting guests. I beam with love.

She is trying to savor this moment. I know it is fleeting. She wants everything perfect. I know the mistakes have only just begun. She is worried things will change. I am hopeful for her future. She has the potential of youth. I have the perspective of age. Today she is safe in my kingdom. Tomorrow she becomes an adventurer. It is too much to consider in full.

I have something in my eye, of a sudden.

Look at me, standing here gabbing, when there is much to be done. Thank you for coming! Here is a sarcastic pharmaceutical advertisement for your weekend reading. I penned it on All Hallows Eve last.

Yes, it’s rather strange, but today there is a similar sound and scent of mirth on the breeze. I think you’ll find it satisfying.

Image by hotpot.ai

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One end I wish for sooner, is an end to this season of non-creativity. Though while I grouch, it has been useful. I have been able to get firewood gathered for next season. The garden has been planted, and I got a jump on the weeds this year. Seasonal maintenance of equipment has been performed, mostly painlessly. I am grateful for what has been enabled.

And, I am grateful for you. You have continued to read what I write. Your patient support steadies me. Big thanks to paid subscribers Roger and Nick, and to Founding Member Bill. Interstellar Truck Stop grows because of you!

As I head off to make ends meet, I leave you with a spunky near-future bit about a woman, a demon, and a priest. Not that kind of story. It’s more blue collar.

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