I have a Readers Write essay in The Sun Magazine (November, 2020 issue):
Friday, October 30, 2020
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Not Saying Heaven published in Riggwelter Press Issue #24
Riggwelter Issue #24
My short story starts on page 31, enjoy!
My short story starts on page 31, enjoy!
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
Space Time is Money
I daydream as she rings everything up: hummus, eggs, soda,
nuts. "Sir?" she says, nodding toward the number at the bottom of the
screen. I glance at the list. No single price seems incorrect, but the nineteen
minute total takes my breath away. She shrugs and points at the naturally-grown
cucumbers and squash at one minute apiece before shooting her laser at my chip.
The timeflation takes a bigger bite of my meager paycheck
every month. After expenses I'm down to a handful of disposable seconds a week
with no surplus on the horizon, ensuring another weekend perched down here on my
empty wallet. I slink home—tail forever between my legs.
What was once background noise, easily ignored, has become
the only sound I hear. Thoomp, thoomp, shoot my neighbors' capsules skyward, as
I languish in my mortgaged earthbound cube. They zip into orbit with their
books and their movies and their chatty loved ones to pursue their leisure at 90% the speed of light,
while I sit here on my recliner sucking up twice the time to pick my nose. The truly
wealthy, racing ever closer to light, turn me into a "relativity tortoise"
(their stupid euphemism—I'm more like the hare). I read the same sentence over
and over, distracted by how quickly I hurtle toward the grave on my measly allocation.
I gaze out my little window to watch the sun drop fast beyond
the hills. It could be any Friday night.
Where went the days when pay came in dollars? When falling
behind meant driving a rusty pickup truck or a wife's calloused hands. When
"time is money" was a metaphor. Nowadays the status bars tick over everyone's
heads, drawing lines in the sand, illustrating how much less of the future I will
get to see.
Night falls. I shuffle the trash out to the curb and gaze up
at the audacious golden contrails carving up the heavens. That's when it
happens. The streetlights flicker and pop, plunging my thoughts and the world into
darkness. The shooting stars change course. Their arcs go parabolic, flare up,
and rain down from the sky.
I did not wish this on them. I only longed to slip less far ahead.
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