A Snippet of Fiction
Author Note: After hiking through a local woodland and napping in the sunshine yesterday, I settled in at my desk to devote an hour to whatever came to mind.
Writing eight hundred words without a game plan might not seem like much of a cause for celebration considering that over the past few years I’ve published two companion novels, posted regularly on this website and Substack, promoted online as best as I could in more ways than I care to admit, and finished a fair amount of the first draft of my third novel.
But after keeping my nose to the creative grindstone all that time, letting a brand-new random thought take root was an act of pure joy. Although I’ve never posted a first draft before and have no defensible reason for doing so now, my newfound freedom gives me license to do just that.
So for your consideration, I present my quirky piece of serialized short fiction (which has expanded to about 2800 words).
[No AI was used in any aspect of the writing above, the fiction piece below, anything else I’ve written, or anything I will ever write, for that matter.]
Spare Time
He knew full well talking with other members of his species tended to lead to disappointment. After all, hardly any of them managed to venture below his placid surface to explore the honeycomb caves roiling with memories and conjectures.
So why bother? Sure, the preliminaries seemed hopeful enough with the standard fare of commentaries, niceties, abstractions, and probing. But at some point or other along the way, the singular event drawing the vast majority of conversations to an abrupt close inevitably materialized, shattering the tentative comradery like a wrecking ball in a house of mirrors.
In fact, he’d become adept at perceiving the subtlest cues signaling the onset of such events to an almost annoying degree. A change of pace, a glance in another direction, feet shuffling, throats clearing, an array of attitude signals flashing among those in the know.
And then the inevitable question he dreaded most of all—“So what do you do in your spare time?”
The man’s initial reaction typically dwelled on some of the particulars of the English language. From a structural standpoint, he still viewed the basic question as a simple construct, of course, but from a metalinguistic perspective, not so much. It seemed to him the pattern was almost etched in stone. No one had ever asked, “So in your spare time, what do you do?” or “So what, in your spare time, do you do?” or “So what do you, in your spare time, do?” Some inquisitors had indeed been more direct, but their questions came across as little more than blunt unforced errors.
So when he rediscovered his childhood kinship with trees, he realized that responding to that dreaded question with the clear truth about his unique gift would do little more than add fuel to the gossip fire already flickering around him.
At first he’d attributed the return of the voice to his recovery from anesthesia after a routine colonoscopy ferried him on a meandering sortie through expansive valleys of lucid dreams the likes of which he’d never experienced. But as he stood in his backyard soaking up the beautiful spring afternoon while rubbing his naked body with garden soil to cleanse his skin of the array of life forms from the clinic that had no doubt marshaled forces for an invasion of his gut microbiome, something almost imperceptible shifted.
For a moment, he smiled at the soft, remonstrative tone of his wife’s voice. He assumed she felt it her duty to remind him that sunbathing a la Ben Franklin was not tolerated by their HOA any more than by 18th-century Philadelphia, and that he was certainly not a renowned Renaissance man with the political clout to defy restrictive mores. Then the man remembered his wife was gone—a victim of a virus many apparently still believed had been a hoax—and veered as close to abject grief as he had in years.
Once he recovered from that pain enough to move on, he surmised that the unidentified pleasant voice must belong to his backyard neighbor who’d grown noticeably more animated in her interactions with him following the one-year anniversary of her husband’s gruesome death. However, in a moment of clarity, the man remembered their latest hushed conversation through a gap in the fence between his garden and her garage regarding her upcoming cruise with her daughter’s family and could he please keep an eye on things.
That meant the next voice of interest had to belong to Eulalia, the ubiquitous AI household plastabrain that received glowing five-star reviews from anyone determined to safeguard as many of their social credits as possible. But he knew that contraption couldn’t be the source since he’d changed the setting from Lilting Scottish Woman to Gritty Bostonian Troglodyte a few days before tripping over his own two feet while carrying an overflowing mop bucket, knocking the compulsory gizmo onto the floor, and stepping on it twice before slipping and spilling every last drop of dirty water on top for good measure.
And so it was that with all the other credible possibilities scratched off the list, he had no choice but to frame his experience as a Borgesian Whimsy. What aside from magical realism could explain how the towering ponderosa in his backyard that had demonstrated no sign of sentience during decades of relentlessly raining needles and pine cones down at an almost industrial level was now speaking to him in a myriad of mesmerizing voices and obscure dialects?
Each step the man took toward the ancient one felt like an offering to a living, breathing shaman. He extended his greetings to the magnificent being as he had all those years before, trying desperately not to shunt the magic he now craved more than anything.
The silence settled around him, soothing the frayed edges of his pain and spreading throughout his body like a magical elixir.
The man cleared his throat and repeated a variation of his dusted off greeting. The moment he began contemplating why the tree had reached out to him in the first place all those years ago and was doing so again, a sudden thought occurred to him. If an observer peered over his next-door neighbor’s fence at that precise moment, they would witness an afternoon comedy act featuring a naked old man addressing an enormous pine tree as if it were his long-lost spiritual guide.
The man chuckled at his mind’s slapstick rendering of that scene as he unwound the nearby hose to rinse off the dirt and mud from his prickly skin. The instant the cold water poured over his trembling body, images of a twilit world flickered at the edges of his fading memory. He saw himself tiptoeing outside, easing the storm door closed, and marveling at the heavens in all their glory before making the pilgrimage to the base of the pine sapling to wait for the comforting tones. Then he felt the raptorial hand gripping his shoulder as a prelude to the dreaded sting of leather sculpting the flesh on his backside into a mosaic of hideous welts he would dutifully hide until they faded.
The naked man staggered away from the agonizing childhood memory and back into his house in search of the warm, soothing embrace of the shower.
Later that day as the sun dipped below the distant hills, he carried a tattered folding chair toward the ponderosa. He almost pitched forward onto his face when he tried performing a full bow while leaning on the chair to right himself. Sitting with his back against the tree that had grown more than sixty feet while the man’s days and years had seemed to condense, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, relishing the familiar blend of scents.
⟪Now I am here⟫, the man thought, ⟪now I am here.⟫
Kuantaput tanti. The ethereal voice held him spellbound as it had all those years ago. Mey gni yla zálda.
The man whispered, “Please, I don’t under—”
O lxd gi’x ugwod.
The man’s entire body shuddered with each breath as the sounds flowed through the honeycomb caves of his mind, spiraling and shimmering with each new fold it discovered. “I’d forgotten how the years take their toll.”
Ling oun ik, zik wonit il wnet.
“We are indeed,” the man replied. He sat in silence until the crickets began their serenade and the first stars graced the night sky.
Kxig gux sost.
“Yes, until tomorrow,” he muttered as he struggled to his feet.
At dawn the man set up shop on the opposite side of the tree trunk. He closed his eyes, calmed his breathing, and waited.
Lat kawan esano, y fotsin.
The man smiled at the chorus of voices blending into one. “That I am.”
Dir manist, tasko pae munzik?
For a fleeting moment, the man wished he hadn’t unleashed his fury against the Eulalia and its prodigious translating mode. But his own response flowed as easily as water over rocks. “I don’t know where else to look.”
Kwelu pinla higtuz.
The man made a feeble attempt at suppressing the frustration that without warning erupted from the depths of his soul. “Stop showing off. I’m after answers, not tricks.”
Tiek to miwzem ciezlko.
“‘You only know what you need to know?’ What’s that got to do with anything?”
Nutte fley mena.
The man snapped. “Enough with the cosmic debris, all right? ‘Everything and nothing.’ Why can’t you just use—?”
Qhib kilugu ganta.
“Like hell it’s boring. Life would be infinitely better if everybody spoke the same damn language and you know it.”
Talvez, mas você entende, mesmo assim.
“Of course I understand. Why wouldn’t I?”
Então, você deve saber português tão bem quanto—
“What? If you’re so enlightened, why don’t you understand that I don’t speak anything but—?” The man perceived his thoughts floating on a river of dialects, the translations swirling like tadpoles in an undercurrent. “Wait, how can this be happening?”
Gäktu cindz ugēku.
“What do you mean ‘your guess is as good as mine’? Didn’t I ask you to knock off the different languages and philosophy sound bites? I’m getting a headache.”
Pero solo hablo un idioma.
“One language, my ass. What about all those others you toss around like some polyglot savant wannabe?”
Ħæwq £ŗůooz çaπ.
“Bullshit. Stop trying to gaslight me. You’re the one babbling in all those different tongues, not me.”
Am I, my friend? Are you so sure?
Each word reverberated in the man’s memory, expanding and contracting like a double-lung bellows.
Are…you…so…sure?
The slight tingling in his feet spiraled up past his ankles, then toward his knees.
“What the hell’s h-happening to me?”
The awareness will come to you bit by bit, my friend.
“What…are…you—?”
Remember, you need not speak your words aloud. Simply think of them as intended for me, and I will understand.
He struggled to move, but his body resisted as if the surface gravity had doubled. When his tongue refused to respond, he stopped struggling and let his thoughts shape themselves without speaking. ⟪What are you doing to me?⟫
Easing the door open the way you did for me a lifetime ago, and I for you before that, and so on as far back as I have memories.
When the man tried forcing his feet to move, he managed to shuffle twice before falling onto his side. ⟪You’re turning me into a tree?⟫
Oh no, you’re doing so yourself. It is time, after all, for you to leave the recast world behind and return to your mycorrhizal home. Have you not sensed it here of late? Strange dreams of each toe stretching and spreading through the soil while your fingers clamor for the sky, and your skin—
The man twisted his body, gathering all his strength and listing to his feet. But when he tried backing away, an invisible wall stopped him.
Please, my friend, relax and remember it will all be fine.
⟪No…no, it won’t. Now I truly remember.⟫
Perhaps so, but stay vigilant of the ravenous false narratives with their underlying constructs and beliefs vying for your attention. So many years of mistrust and abuse magnified beyond measure by greed. Layer upon layer of treachery and conspiracy—true and confabulated—infused into all that you have read and viewed and listened to as you searched for an escape from reality.
Suddenly the man saw a mosaic of brightly colored, undulating objects—books and screens and phones and Eulalias flashing and spinning in a whirlwind.
Turn your attention inward and let the storm dissipate of its own accord. No need to bother with that anymore.
The man felt the wall behind him soften as a warm, soothing substance began covering his skin. ⟪Why pick me?⟫
We chose one another.
The man’s thoughts clouded over again, then a vague image presented itself as if bathed in dim stage lights.
The memory resurfaces the same way every time, does it not?
He tried to shake his head, but gave up. ⟪I don’t know what it is.⟫
None of us ever do until the moment the veils lift. Then we all know it is time.
The man startled. ⟪We all? There’s more of us?⟫
Volunteers too numerous to count.
⟪And time for what?⟫
To anchor as one. You must surely sense the outreach of others.
⟪Outreach? What are you—?⟫
Trust me, the time is at hand. Volunteers are actively linking across this strange world.
⟪So we’re part of an alien invasion?⟫
Winsome laughter echoed through the man’s mind as if he were a child in Fingal’s Cave again.
Alien invasion? Oh, my dear friend, how hoodwinked your recast mind has become. All of us are no more than lifesavers tossed into a raging sea. Our sole purpose, you will soon remember, is to assist life on this deteriorating planet. The drums of war and politics increase daily while oceans rise, toxins multiply, natural resources diminish, and inequities persist. Before long there will be few viable zones left where lifeforms less fortunate than our own can survive.
⟪What can we do to stop the madness?⟫
Nothing, my friend, absolutely nothing. We offer up ourselves as underpinnings in the bedrock, holding the line as best we can against the raging storms of mutually assured destruction.
⟪When will it happen?⟫
None of us even knows if it will. We are only discerners, not seers. When the moment is at hand, those who remain will reinforce our links as we weather the troubles that lie ahead.
⟪Then why do we recast?⟫
To embrace humans from within. Each of us takes a turn through a normal life cycle, embedding ourselves in whatever strata society offers us, helping one another and those less fortunate. Each excursion allows us to connect, adapt, and avail ourselves to our hosts in whatever way we can. We carry those memories upon our return and use them to fortify ourselves for the coming upheaval.
The man smiled. ⟪But what if humans somehow manage to change course before it’s too late?⟫
Then we shall be filled with joy for that moment and with hope for the future when they can see their world through unfiltered eyes as we do.
The man felt waves of energy surge between every fiber of his being, then all his aches and pains subside. Each breath he took became shallower as his lungs dispersed throughout his body, foramina materialized on his skin, and his respiration cycle rediscovered its reverse rhythm.
⟪The veils are lifting.⟫
Gus an coinnich sinn a-rithist, seana-charaid.
⟪Yes, until we meet again, my friend.⟫
Later that day, two paramedics put the final touches on covering the man’s body with a sheet and cinching the straps on the gurney before bouncing it over the network of lateral roots burgeoning across the yard.
A small group of people disbanded near the garden in the shade of the ponderosa, their hushed tones drifting on the breeze.
“—mad aura.”
“Tell me about it. Lived next door to the unhinged guy my whole life.”
“Got some stories, huh?”
“Oh yeah, like how just the other day he was butt naked, covered in mud, and having a spirited discussion with that ginormous ponderosa over there like they were best buds.”
“Well, at least we finally found out what the crazy boomer did in his spare time.”
Nervous laughter erupted and faded as the group slogged through the well-watered, fresh garden soil toward the side gate.
When a gust of wind buffeted the ponderosa, a cloud of pine needles rose high into the air like a murmuration of starlings in the eventide’s fading light before settling over the garden and blanketing the remnants of human footprints.
The End
A recent review of my latest novel Core Haven: Hope Amid the Ruins
P.S. At the time of this writing, Core Haven: Hope Amid the Ruins has maintained its 4.8 out of 5 with 51global ratings & 49 customer reviews on Amazon, along with 4.62 out of 5 with 130 ratings & 120 reviews on Goodreads. Not too shabby, right?
My first self-published novel, Pearl Fields and the Oregon Meltdown: A Tale of Survival, is currently available on the Kindle Store.
My companion novel, Core Haven: Hope Amid the Ruins, was released on July 31st, 2025. Available now.
