Refracted Neurons

In front of her was a river, frothy white with rapids, and a wooden boat, oars still engaged in the oarlocks. “There must be a mistake,” Latona looked up at the achingly blue sky.  The last thing she could remember was the screeching of metal as her car crumpled around her.  Fabric or paper twirled in the air like confetti.  Then pain. She was dead, she was definitely one-hundred percent dead, and there was truly a man wearing only a loincloth standing in front of her.  She pinched herself, but it didn’t hurt.  She was dead after all. “I am Phelegas, ferryman of the dead.  You must pay your fare to pass into Hades,” he held out a pale hand. “Where’s the white tunnel?  And Hades?  Like hell?  I must have really messed up,” Latona tried to look only at the man’s face.  He was nearly naked, and far too old for her taste. “Hades is the Greek afterworld.  Your name is Latona, the hidden one, daughter of Coeus and Phoebe, si...

The longing bursts inside you for choruses of gloria tua from lungs too choked with smoke to sing and even though icons hold sway among the ashes, sound doesn't travel the same. As if Miserere was never misprinted, and the shivers trickling over and off you, are solely unfallen rain. But mercy is never what you wanted to ask for, and this fall hurts because in it, you see yourself. ------------------------------------ As a sort of a side note, the story of Allegri's Miserere  is the chocolate chip cookie story of the choral music world.  If you've never heard Miserere performed live in a cathedral, well, first of all, you should; and second of all the arrangement commonly heard is a result of a mistake.  Read the link if you're interested. Recently I've been having skin problems, you know, the kind of problems where the dermatologist speaks to you in Latin and chops off a chunk of flesh.  Just to make matters even more bizarre, I have to...

Behind each set of glassy eyes is a darkness so complete that broken bottles glint like stars and you button your shirt to the top button, as if to beg, for the embrace of an atmosphere you cannot breathe outside of, and hold in terror those who float free from the tethers gasping as they rise into nothing. Adjust your tie and swat away the hands that tug at you, dazed eyes that search yours, a constellation of shattered glass, your own gravity is in peril.

Miss Viola Brolly surveyed the office with dismay.  The desk was nearly invisible under a mound of unsorted correspondence, a typewriter waved a single sheet of bond like a plea for mercy, and books were stacked everywhere.  Everywhere that is, except the bookshelves, and Brolly didn’t even want to know what was on those shelves.  Removing her coat, she hung it on one of the two coat racks.  Why such a small operation required two, was beyond her.  She pulled the advertisement from her smart patent bag, smoothing the edges of the newsprint. SECRETAR NEEDED TYPE STENO $3 JOHNS CO 1100 4TH FL STE D Brolly squinted at the frosted glass window. Had it really said “D?”  Perhaps she had gone into the wrong suite by mistake.  Perhaps there was a tidier and altogether less musty workplace that needed her skills. “Oh, hello.  I didn’t hear you come in,” the man wore a suit that ran short in the arms. “No doubt they’ve been turned a time or ...

I think you already know how this goes: I'm on vacation, driving down the road when suddenly I see it. "I wanna go there," I point at a cemetery. My husband laughs.  Here we are in Hawaii and this is what I want to do.  But come on, check out this cemetery: Don't blink. Whenever I visit a new cemetery, I always try to find some history on the grounds themselves.  With the exception of Comet Lodge, this is usually a fruitless task.  I even tried the County Assessor Office this time, but it doesn't seem to go far back enough in time. For some reason, I couldn't even find a sign, so I had to drop a pin on my location and do a web search.  The cemetery name is Saint Catherine's, and it's a little over a century old.  It was consecrated in 1887, and some of the stones are from that time frame.  It is still an active cemetery and there seems to be plenty of room for new stones.  As you may have guessed by the name, it is a Catholic cemeter...

Vera was in the middle of writing a report when her computer screen went black.  “What the - “ The office was strangely dim, the overhead fan powered only by its inertia.   “We’re all going to freeze to death!” Tracy banged out of his office, his blue eyes wide with panic.  He tripped over Vera’s chair legs, grabbing the wheeled base as he sprawled. Vera swiveled, raising her feet to avoid kicking her boss, “Is it still snowing out there?” “Yes, and we’ll have to dig our way out like moles,” Tracy sat up, “Did you know moles have poisonous spit?” Vera stood, groundhogging over her cubicle wall.  The snow still fell, big puffy flakes accumulating on the window ledges.  She didn’t even want to think about what the streets looked like. “We’re on the third floor, Tracy, the snow isn’t that deep.” “Hey Vera, if two moles kiss do they both die?” Tracy sat with his legs splayed, cupping his kneecaps in his palms, “It’d be like Romeo and Juliet w...

We are staying at an estate that is like a beautiful woman with tangled hair.  Neglect is slowly wearing away at her, and you know that in ten years she will no longer be beautiful.  But right now, her unkemptness makes her eyes seem wild, and she is ablaze with a vibrancy no clipped hedge ever had. And there is a pig. I'm hoping to have a little more time to write while we're here.  The kids have attended one day of school this month thanks to the snow, and they had some fierce cabin fever.   I've been inching along with my mystery, but I really want to get sidetracked and write a little office romance for kicks.