Navigating the Noise of Silent Spaces

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below:

Navigating the Noise of Silent Spaces

 I’m making the rounds this morning, stopping here and there to examine and purchase books that might sell to willing customers at the bookshop. It is well before opening time, so I get to enjoy one of my guilty pleasures—being alone and quiet and meditative as I navigate the city streets, alone with my thoughts and ambitions and fears and pleasures.

This morning is quieter than usual. The radio and music player have been removed for repair, and I will spend at least two weeks in a silent vehicle, listening only to the quiet…my quiet ruminations, my soundless grin, the silent blinking of my eyes, the vast soundless panorama of life being lived on the other side of the windshield.

The widescreen epic before me is familiar—with momentary touches of unpredictability to spice things up.

Here inside this booth of isolation I can pretend to be in control of my own destiny—a delusion at best, but a humorous and harmless delusion.

Coming directly toward me, going the wrong way in the middle of one-way Third Avenue North is a cyclist who seems to own the road. He is riding a real bike, a beat-up old reject whose wheels still squeak and turn. He is oblivious to hazard and danger and owns this lane all by himself, since it is up to us drivers to swerve around him and keep him safe. He, too, is living inside a booth of isolation.

A one-crutch pedestrian slowly wends his way across the street, also oblivious of the traffic and the racing world around him. I just drive carefully and hope that others will do the same.

On the passing sidewalk, an elderly shopper stoops and stares at the dysfunctional parking meter that refuses to accept his metal coin. He can’t decide whether to move his car to a working-meter space, not knowing whether a cranky meter monitor might give him a catch-22 ticket regardless of where he parks.

A dog trots along, walking its leashed master who puffs on a large cigar to counterbalance the fresh morning air. A discarded pair of running shorts drapes a curb, golden leaves swirl about, one man is changing his tire, a coffee-clutching bank employee rushes to staff her Dilbert booth before the boss finds out, a waiting bus rider gums his Honey Bun, an unmufflered motorcyclist zooms by, traffic lights wink at me, one low-flying plane swoops between the towers toward the airport.

I complete my morning chores, pull into the parking lot, drag my newfound treasures to the door of the shop, pause to smell the morning’s freshness, then push through the looking glass


© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook

I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues Oh Yeah

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

 or read his story below:

I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues Oh Yeah

The ringing in my ears triggers an automatic response. Left hand rises from prone body, towers to the ceiling for a second, then descends like a fallen tree and slaps quiet the alarm clock by the bed. Silent morning, holy morning, all is calm for a few seconds.

Chase away the cobwebbed remnants of a discomfiting dream, push aside dreadful imaginings, rub eyes wide awake, access the A.M. checklist called How to Get Through the Moment.

Am I the only member of my dubious species who is aware of what is going on here? We are all doing time, aren’t we? And in turn, time is doing us.

So, following the checklist, I jump for joy onto the cold wooden floor, seize the morning, look over my shoulder at the good things I’ve almost missed, prepare for the Big Punch Line that will inevitably occur somewhere down the road.

To get into the rhythm of the day, I let it all go. Freefall into the pleasures, shake off the “I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues Oh Yeah” song in my head. Purposely walk the sunny side of the routiines, avert my eyes and mind when the Dreadfuls smirk and attack.

Aware that I am a living being under the Dome. Conscious of the fact that I am a prisoner locked inside this misshaped pale body bag. Constantly alert to the grand possibilities.

When all this improvisation gets rolling for the day, the Attitudes arise.

I can handle That.

Even if I can’t handle That I can appear to handle That.

Isn’t this what most of us adults try to do each day, anyhow? I am not brave, but I certainly know how to act brave, in order to avoid spreading my fears, in order to set an example to help someone else get through the day, in order to share a bit of hope and cheer in a sometimes dreadful world, in order to remind others that there are things in life that can tamp down the words of naysayers and wrongdoers and ne’er do wells and damaged prophets.

It’s a grand bit of acting, this daily behavior. As the years tumble down, I begin to realize that I am powerless to change anything substantially. I learn that there are things I can do that, perhaps in their own way, will make minuscule differences. For instance, I can hug my family and tell them I love them…each and every time I see them. I can stop an extra moment and listen to the diatribe or woeful tale of a stranger. I can share a kindly word with someone who seems to be yearning for one. I can stuff my ego into my back pocket and  present my best grumpy old smile.

And the best thing I can do is remind myself that I am everybody I come in contact with.

There are no substantive differences.

I am everybody. And when I forget that fact, I become less human and more narcissistic—narcissism and lack of empathy being two of the worst flaws in our collective DNA.

So, just bear with me for a few seconds when we meet, allow me time to fan away the “I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues” song and dredge up the better part of myself to share with you.

Oh yeah


© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook

The No-Ending Stories Remain Neverending

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below:

The No-Ending Stories Remain Neverending

It’s the stories that don’t quite end that fascinate me.

Happy endings are easy to compose or imagine, but Hapless Endings—now, that’s another thing.

Tiny, suspenseful stories that do not quite complete themselves pervade my life.

I am five years old, way back when, watching my Uncle Brandon servicing a customer’s car in front of the Sinclair Oil pump at my Grandfather’s general store.

Brandon checks oil and tires, cleans windshield, dabs at a bit of mud sticking to the front fender—you know, in these olden days when service stations actually provide service.

Then, he pops the gas tank top and starts pumping, keeping an eye on the meter. Uncle Brandon leans over the pump handle, lighted cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted against the smoke. A half-inch-long glowing ash is just inches above the rising fumes, and even at age five I wonder what would happen if the ember dropped into the tank. It is a fleeting thought that remains with me to this day.

Uncle Brandon McGee survives hundreds of fill-ups with nary an accident, and he lives to entertain me with his gentle humor and family anecdotes through the years.

But every time I spy dangling ashes, I think about him.

There, across the street from my home, a worker uses his leaf blower to move detritus from one yard to someone else’s yard, all the while squinting from the cigarette he puffs. In the parking lot near my shop, a break-timer sucks on his lighted smoke while texting. Laughing, gossipy smokers remain outside the shop, taking final drags before entering and sharing their fragrance. Later, I sweep flattened filters over the curb, mimicking the leaf blower man by moving my stuff into someone else’s territory. Then, street sweepers will move those filters yet again. And the wind will bring them back to the door to be re-swept tomorrow.

Like I say, these overlapping neverending stories just keep on telling themselves, and seldom do they wrap themselves up into neatly-phrased punchlines. I can only pretend that each tale ends happily.

Does Uncle Brandon someday regret his habit? Does the leaf-blower reform? Do the shop-door puffers awaken and develop replacement habits? Does the texting break-timer survive his serial inhalations?

Do I ever stop watching, observing, wondering, writing, passing along my neverending thoughts? Maybe you can come up with a satisfactory ending. Or at least a hapless ending


© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook


Edgar Beatty Exhausts His Invulnerable Prerogative on Eastwood Avenue

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below:

Edgar Beatty Exhausts His Invulnerable Prerogative on Eastwood Avenue

Right now (many decades ago), I am a wee lad, frantically shooing away the constantly buzzing words that fling themselves at me.

I am someday going to be called a nerd somewhere by somebody. I know I am a nerd, even though I’ve never heard or seen such a word. Sometime in the distant future, I will learn to call myself that, but right now, I’ll just use the word to make it easier for you to understand what I am talking about.

Words fascinate me at this young age. Right now, I know just a few thousand words, but each day I learn more, mainly by observing the world around me.

For instance, one day my next-door adult neighbor, Edgar Beatty, is having a shouting match with another adult neighbor who is strutting menacingly because Edgar’s dog has chased his child. Edgar stands him off and refuses to apologize for his pet’s behavior. The red-faced neighbor stomps off, yelling over his shoulder that he’s going to call the police. Edgar yells back. “That’s your prerogative!” and disappears into his house.

I am stunned. I have seen that word “prerogative” in books, but I have never heard anybody actually say it aloud, let alone in a sentence. Edgar Beatty, being a roughhewn man, seldom uses words more than two syllables long. But suddenly he’s throwing “prerogative” around as if he’s a closet intellectual. And he’s using it powerfully, like a missile.

I’ll never know where Edgar Beatty learned such a word, but I do make a note to re-examine my ideas about who knows what and how much and why. I am always making notes. Up till now, I assume that I, the bookish kid on the block, am the sole owner of that word.

It’s that way with other words, too. I always remember where I learn them. Like the time I’m listening to a favorite radio serial called “Front Page Farrell.” My hero, Farrell, has been running through the cars of a moving train, chasing some bad guys. His loyal girlfriend suddenly stops and proclaims, “I am exhausted!”  Whoa! Exhausted? I have seen this word in print but, never having heard it spoken, assume it is pronounced ex-HASTED. All this time, I have been ex-HASTED now and then, never exhausted.

Front Page Farrell adds a word to my vocabulary.

I learn many, many words in similar fashion. For instance, in Superman comic books and on his radio show, Superman always talks about being invulnerable. Invulnerable. I have to reason that one out. He also occasionally becomes vulnerable, like when Kryptonite shows up. So…invulnerable must mean bullets bounce off him. Vulnerable means he becomes weak and more like us mere humans. Those are great words!

I’m still learning to use new words. I even use Edgar Beatty’s example and occasionally employ a word as a missile. Like the word antidisestablishmentarianism. Somebody tells me this is one of the longest words around, so I take ownership and use it now and then.

I am impressed with myself, but nobody else is.

To this day, finding a new word, learning the subtleties of old words, changing the power of words through inflection or volume, omitting obvious words and finding fresh replacements…it’s all a preoccupation that gives me great pleasure. I can always entertain myself by noticing how words are misused, misunderstood, twisted, re-imagined, misspelled, weaponized, deflated, discarded…

It’s a game any nerd can enjoy.

Even if you are the only kid on the block who knows how to play it

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook






As It Turns Out, Happening Just Happens

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below…

As It Turns Out, Happening Just Happens

My Red Clay Diary just fell to the floor and splayed itself open to one particular page. From twenty years ago, these thoughts presented themselves to me.

I wonder whether these insights will endure another twenty years.


Life just seems to happen to me…or is it that I happen to life? Would life even Be if I were not happening to it?

And if it is the case that life is happening to me, rather than I to It, does it make one whit of difference in the universal schemelessness of things?

Where was I?

Oh, yes, about life in the hereafter and the herebefore. Is life happening to me or am I happening to It? Want to know the answer? And if so, what good would it do to know the answer? Is it better to muddle along and be surprised by the Next Big Thing, or it is better to know all the answers and know all the formulae and have infinite knowledge about everything and everyhappening? Is knowledge necessarily a good thing, or is it better to know very little and guess even less and just roll with the dice of the universe, hoping it will all come out to the good?

When Aristotle was asked what a person could gain by uttering a falsehood, he replied, “Not to be credited when he shall tell the truth.”

Shall I tell you the truth about life?

If I lie to you in this diary entry, you will not credit me when I finally do say something true. On the other hand, if I tell you the truth, you could be in danger of not being able to tell when I eventually lie to you.

Might be best to drop this treadmill quest for Truth and simply do this:

Take stock of each precious moment this week, and allow the dice of the universe to roll on.

Remember that the dots facing down on the dice are just as important as the dots facing up.

Being kind and loving and caring really matters. The truths constantly change and disguise themselves, but being kind and loving and caring always counts

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook


Entering the Out Door and Exiting the In Door

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below:

Entering the Out Door and Exiting the In Door

 Clunk! Rattle. “Oh, PUSH, I see!”

This is a customer in the shop, attempting to exit,  making a big noise, then muttering to himself.

Clunk! Rattle. “Heh, heh. Uh, PUSH! OK.”

This is a customer in the shop, attempting to exit,  making a big noise, then muttering to herself.

This occurs several times a day.

See, the front door of the shop opens outward onto the sidewalk—perhaps an idiosyncrasy of the way buildings were constructed back in 1890. But the average customer assumes you’re supposed to PULL the door open, causing the thick wooden frame to slap against an immovable jamb. The action results in a THUD, then a rattling of the loosely glazed glass.

Even though there is a large square plate stating PUSH, right at the handle, the unwritten rule is PULL first, read PUSH later. It’s a cheap amusement.

Wherever I roam or shop, I see the PUSH PULL syndrome acted out in odd ways. Two-door entranceways always sport one locked door and one hinged door. This is an unsolved mystery of the universe. Nobody can explain to me why an establishment with two doors unlocks only one at a time.

The customer has to gamble every time. IS THIS THE LOCKED DOOR? Nope, it swings outward, offering no resistance and throwing the patron off balance. IS THIS THE UNLOCKED DOOR? Nope, I slam against it, having miscalculated its status. IS THIS THE UNLOCKED DOOR THAT SWINGS OUTWARD? Nope, I run into the glass, having had a fifty-fifty chance of being right.

Is there a hidden employee having a good laugh at my expense? Does the Cosmos snicker at my bumbling? Is there a building code that requires establishments to use just one door at a time?

Maybe it is all about entertainment, whether intentional or accidental.

I recall the car detailing shop on Second Avenue South. Its main claim to jokesterism  was a shiny quarter prominently beckoning from the concrete floor. Leonard and crew would spend much time watching as each customer, attempting to be a good-manners custodian, would stoop or bend down to pick up the quarter. Since it was securely glued to the floor, the good Samaritan would react differently—abashed, amused, confused, embarrassed, philosophical. Much of the time, nobody was caught watching the charade, thus helping folks save face. The silent joke was the day’s prime entertainment.

At Reed Books, the PUSH PULL door situation is not intentional. It’s just the way the doorway is built. But it is entertaining to see how each person interprets the doorway. A harmless bit of distraction for both browser and audience.


There it goes again


© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook



Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below:

Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?

Way back before The Storm, I am walking the avenues of the French Quarter, sniffing around the edges of everything to see past the seductions being flaunted before me. Back in these days, New Orleans is the Big Difficult, a strange jambalaya of history, fiction, lies and legends. I am just another tourist peeking at the sideshow, but I am also the writer who wonders what is real and what is carnival.

The Quarter, as it turns out, is a series of glimpses.

I weave through the meandering crowd, glimpsing through an open door a waitress, nude save for the small dangling frontal pouch that holds order pad and tips and pencil. Does she imagine herself all dressed up for work?

Wonderful fragrances of spicy food being cooked and served mingle with faint urine smells from a narrow alley. There are still cobblestones about, causing an inebriant to sway even more as he walks by holding onto a wall.

The enormous old church oversees moneylenders and moneytakers who are quick to pose for pictures. Tiny overpriced windowless apartments are available everywhere, and no matter where I look, there are children tapdancing in their bottle-capped sneakers, hoping to magnetize a quarter of two from my pockets.

Dixieland music collides in midair with re-worked folktunes, and everything is played full volume as each venue vies for attention. Everybody smokes tobacco and other musty substances. The air is one hundred percent fume and flame and exhalation.

I learn to enjoy the Quarter by ignoring that which does not lend itself to change.

During the day, I visit brimming old bookshops, scan the wares of street vendors, eat the most delicious foodstuffs and frequently escape the drear humidity to bask beneath a hotel air-conditioner.

Of the non-visitors, most everyone has an attitude. Many are rude or abrupt. All wish for tips and gratuities and favors. But, strangely, this curious mixture of impoliteness and commerce helps make the Quarter authentic. I put up with behavior I would never tolerate back home.

The next-morning streets are bright and free of hustle. I wind up so absorbed in examining the shelves of an old bookstore that when I am ready to check out, I startle the owner. “Wow! We didn’t know anybody was here, so we locked up and went to lunch for an hour!”

I didn’t know I had been imprisoned. The perfect incarceration.

Back on the street, I amble along, watching people who watch people watching people. This is before the time when each person has a small device sutured to a palm. This is back when some of us actually gaze at one another and converse pleasantly.

It is a city filled with short-term emigrants from everywhere, and for these few hours we all get along with one another. Languages and slangs overlap. Even megaphoned preachers and zealots are tolerated here.

As I head toward the train station to return to Alabama, I wonder whether or when I will ever return to this potpourri, this overspiced porridge of a town.

Somewhere on the way out of Louisiana, just past flagrantly decaying cemeteries, the train comes to an unscheduled stop in the midst of nowhere. After a while, a porter walks through the cabin carrying a very large and quite dead turkey. “We ran over him on the tracks. We’ll cook him up for supper,” the porter grins.

So, even though I’m escaping the Big Difficult, a little bit of its traditions and primal rites return with me. Fresh turkey served on the tracks on the way to the shuffle of the big city of Sweet Birmingham


© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook

Sollie Cracks Some Eggs and a Couple of Smiles

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read Jim’s story:

Sollie Cracks Some Eggs and a Couple of Smiles

It is just Dad and me today, tooling around in his truck, looking for something fun to do.

My name is Sollie, and thanks for reading this story, copied just for you from my red velvet diary.

Today goes like this. Since I’m too young to drive, Dad gets to decide where we will go and where we will not go. Just between you and me, I know that I’m his favorite daughter, mainly because I am his only daughter. So, actually, Dad will take me just about anywhere I ask, unless it’s too far away or too dangerous.

“Let’s go to the Museum of Fond Memories and see what’s there today!” I act more enthusiastic than I plan, because, even though I pretend to make a tough decision, the old book store is where I want to go all along.

Dad grins and turns the car toward Downtown. It’s Saturday and I don’t notice much traffic, so basically Dad has nothing to grumble about.

Now I’m rushing into the book shop, the Museum of Fond Memories, trying not to show too much excitement. But I am excited, even though I try to keep it to myself. I go down the aisle of the old store, speaking to Mister Reed, who owns it and who always smiles a big smile when he sees me. He and I have a secret. We can read each others’ minds. We both love all these old books and toys and statues and strange objects. We can tell just by looking at each other.

Now I have arrived at my destination, an old metal tub filled with “doodads,” according to the sign. It’s the doodads I love the most. I’m scraping away layers of key chains, bottle openers, marbles, small dolls, tiny shoes, billfolds and all kinds of collecting kinds of stuff. The great thing about the tub is everything in here is fifty cents each! I know I can get an armful of loot for a few dollars.

Dad is wandering around, looking at an ancient book, examining an old bookend, reading the sleeve of a vinyl recording. Me, I’m just digging for loot.

Today, the old tub is different. Inside, among the toys and keepsakes, some large plastic colored eggs are scattered. Really. These are oversized eggs, and they have been sealed up so that you can’t open them right there in the store. I pick one up and shake it, holding it close to my ear. Something is inside. I grab another egg and shake it, and I notice that each egg feels differently, some heavier, some lighter, but all of them definitely filled with things ready to be taken home.

I have got to have these eggs.

I walk up to Dad, holding four eggs and grinning up at him. “Dad, this is what I want.”

Dad says, “That’s it? That’s all you want?”

“Yes, yes.” What I don’t tell him is I want to take the eggs with me and open them in the truck, just to see what’s inside.

I show Mister Reed the eggs. He charges me two dollars, raises an eyebrow, and says, “There is treasure in each egg. Are you ready for it?”

I nod and smile and wish him a good day.

Inside the truck, Dad helps me peel the tape off each egg. I begIn to open them. All kinds of surprises and prizes fall into my lap. A necklace. An earring. A polished rock. A bouncing ball. A toy soldier. A tiny baby shoe. A small wrench.

And so on.

I open all the eggs and start organizing the contents into Baggies. When I’m through, I look at Dad. He looks at me. Finally, he says, “Want to go get some more?”

I squeal and dash back into the shop, where Mister Reed seems to be expecting me.

“Glad you’re back,” he says.

I start picking up more eggs to buy. Dad helps me. Pretty soon, we have decided to get them all, all seventeen of them. I know I won’t be satisfied with less.

Mister Reed looks at me, fills a bag with my loot, and tells me to come back soon, that maybe, just maybe, there may be more treasure eggs by the time I return. Why do I have the feeling that he packed these eggs just for me?

Dad and I sit in the truck until all the eggs are emptied and their contents sorted.

I look at Dad. “How will Mister Reed be able to sell me more eggs if I’ve bought them all?”

Dad frowns, thinks, says, “Why don’t we give him the egg shells?”

Sometimes dads have great ideas.

Mister Reed and I stare at each  other for a second while I return the eggs. We don’t have to say anything because, as I said in my red velvet diary, he and I can read each others’ minds.

“I’ll be back,” I yell to him as I head for the door.

“I know, I know,” Mister Reed says, as he starts helping another customer at the Museum of Fond Memories


© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook

The Merry Adventures of Saint Leibowitz

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read Jim’s story below:

The Merry Adventures of Saint Leibowitz


First word that comes to mind when I see what I see at Dollar Tree this morning.


I’m examining a small sealed cardboard box labeled “Brunswick Chicken Salad with Crackers,” which is “Ready to Eat.” Ready to eat? How could something sealed in a can, possibly for years, be Ready to Eat?

The expiration date or “Best By” date is fourteen months away. What could possibly make this food product last so long? In my refrigerator at home, this would come to look like swamp residue in a week. The manufacturer must know something I don’t know—maybe that as a consumer I’ll probably eat anything if I’m hungry enough. And today I am hungry.

OK. Let’s look at the package again. “Pre-mixed Chicken Salad (thank goodness they mixed it for me–I’m so weak from hunger and lack of willpower) Ready to Eat with Five Buttery Crackers (Ritz-like crackers…Ritzy crackers?) and Convenient Spoon.” Wow! They even thought to enclose a spoon, not realizing a truly hungry consumer will eat with fingers or even toes if desperate enough.

Oh, and the small potted-meat-size can within the box “Now has an Easy-Peel Foil Lid.” Gosh, I don’t even have to carry around a can opener for my quick snacks.

I fear reading the contents label, but I do note that the main ingredient is “Cooked Chicken.” I do hate it when the chicken is raw.

So, here I am, wanting to eat something, anything, so I can meet my deadline and get on with the day. The Bumble Bee Seafoods company of San Diego has gone to all this trouble to rescue me.

How could the contents of this can possibly taste good? Well, at least I can eat the crackers should the chicken smell funny. And, of course, I’m only wasting a dollar if nothing turns out right. And also, I don’t ever have to eat this stuff again.

I recall the large sealed Civil Defense can at my shop, retrieved unopened from a bomb shelter and manufactured to have indefinite shelf life contents. The container is more than fifty years old and the crackers within still edible, according to one of my customers who actually opened one recently.

“Dear Family, in case you find me lying in shock beneath of pile of fast-food wrappers, allow me to document the adventures leading up to this possible outcome.” That’s the note I’ll leave on my body in case things don’t work out. This little story will suffice.

Being a brave sort at times, I tear open the little box, unseal the crackers, peel back the lid and bid farewell to Saint Leibowitz, the patron saint of all post-disaster sealed food containers

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook

The Pre-Post-Apocalyptic Bookshop in the Remaining Universe

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read Jim’s story below:

The Pre-Post-Apocalyptic Bookshop in the Remaining Universe

As I pass the densely populated bookshelves in the darkening shop at end of day closing time, my fingers brush the spines and cause the books to call out their titles to me, A Canticle for Leibowitz, Brave New World, 1984, The Road, Alas, Babylon, On the Beach, Cat’s Cradle, The Time Machine, and on and on and on.

This evening, all the post-apocalypse tomes seem to be vying for my attention, longing to have their messages heard, wondering why their powerful preachments were read, enjoyed, discussed, then tossed aside without resulting in a changed world, a more peaceful universe.

Each book sets forth ideas that could teach us a lesson, make us more dedicated to protecting humanity, cause us to keep our guard up and advance our belief in the welfare of children and grandchildren, neighbors and kin.

But not much happens among humankind in the static cosmos. Sure, creation at large continues in flux, supernovae come and go, black holes slurp up everything, planets are destroyed and born, but we upright mammals seem to be wandering in circles, trapped in cycles of greatness followed by depression followed by hope followed by despair…

I suppose there is another genre of such imaginative fiction—the Pre-Apocalypse tales. Interestingly, this particular category includes every other literary work in existence, for we always live on the edge of the volcano, waiting for the next Apocalypse, the next Shift.

Since we uprights don’t seem to have the skills to alter our own destiny, we just wend our way through each day, sometimes achieving wonderful things, often making things worse…strange suspiring animals who wish we could be greater than we are.

Pre- and Post-Apocalyptic stories at least afford us an outlet that gives us the illusion of sharing our fears and searching for the good that lies sometime buried within us.

Here in the twilight aisles of the last bookstore in the universe, my browsers and I encourage one another, carefully re-arrange the deck chairs, and make every precious moment seem everlasting and hopeful

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

Twitter and Facebook