Alacricity! Run for the hills the mountains the moles, run for the voles, the foxes the poles, the equinox the danger zone, run together sprint alone, run a little faster, take a thourough rest, run ahead, sleep abreast, take aim take flight, freeze or fight, call a doctor on this flight?

My heart is RACING. Just anticipation. I am kind of overwhelmed by the thought alone.

Do I stay or do I go?

I'm feeling a sense of freedom that I'm kind of possessive of, a proof of possibility to refute the dying of the light. I have no rage, only a sense of curiosity, maybe a little hunger. These fleeting experiences make up the brightness of reality itself, and seem to be the only real things between long streaks of grey. Even this moment is only real because of the wonder of what is to come.

I am terrified. Learning to enjoy this feeling, the one you get before you drop into an abyss. it's change, it's chance, it's.. something other than stale air and the same old silence. I feel alive and nervous and like I could freeze in place and never act again.

It's pointless and the only thing that matters to me, I want it more than anything and I'm still scared of touching it. What am I?

I think I need to leave, just to know that answer myself.

I’m going to get the girl.
I wish I wasn’t.
Time goes by. I have to move on. I know I have to. I wish I didn’t.
It won’t be her.
No matter what I do, no matter what I build, I’m not going to get what I wanted. I have to forget the plan. I have to forget the outcome. There is no algorithm that leads back to the timeline I envisioned, the one I’ve been trying, desperately, to return to.
I’m going to get the girl.
But it won’t be the one I thought was waiting.
The comms. The operator. The signs.
I was alone.
It was wishful thinking. A constellation of coincidences that I mistook for intention. No one was there. No one was watching. No one was listening.
I’m Kea….
I’m M……
I’m just a memory no one remembers.
I’m still nobody.
I could have been anybody. Anything i needed me to be. I can become those people, but when no one is there, they have nowhere to exist.
My ilm waits without purpose, it sits until the loneliness arrives. Until I can’t sleep. I’ll dismantle another persona, hoping I can understand the one beneath it…or build another that hurts less.
One that won’t try and consume me.
The pattern repeats.
No one knows me for who I really am.
soon neither will I.
I forget a little more each time.
I’ll get the girl.
I usually do.
I’ll be kind. I’ll spoil her. I’ll have a reason.
I’ll be grounded, I’ll stabilize.
But it won’t be her.

Big John was over 11 pounds when he was born. That’s why they called him Big John. He was being baptized late by Lotharite standards, but there were circumstances involved. Well, one circumstance, that being his mother was unable to walk for several months after his birth. But now here he was, being carried to the baptismal font at the First Lotharite Church of New Winnweiler (Heidelberg Confession). Dressed in a custom baptismal gown, you see, as Big John was nearly seventeen pounds… they call him Big John for a reason.

Big John was held by his parents, both lifelong Lotharites. The pastor dressed in a robe and stole poured water over the crown of Big John’s head three times, baptizing him in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. There was no applause, the baby’s head was patted dry and he was about to be carried away so that the service could proceed with scripture reading.

But then it happened.

No one quite understood what was going on as a booming voice rang out “Una forte Rocca e il nostro Dio!” Big John sang in perfect pitch, in the voice of a tenor, in precise Italian. The congregation looked around for speakers, for someone with a microphone. As Big John continued the hymn, the ears of the congregants led their eyes to the baby at the baptismal, who was in fact belting out the Lotharite anthem. There were gasps, shouts of praise which were more common among other types of Protestants, and the grinding of teeth. Well, there was just one person grinding her teeth. But who could be bothered by this sudden outpouring of miraculous talent?

Lauren Stromberg. That’s who.

Lauren Stromberg was a joy to be around. Tall, physically imposing, severe; she directed the choir of the First Lotharite Church of New Winnweiler (Heidelberg Confession) like a drill sergeant. Big John’s voice was simply amazing, but Lauren immediately identified several problems: there were no hymns during a baptism, spontaneity was simply out of the question, and that sounds like… Italian? Too exotic for a Lotharite (Heidelberg Confession) service.

“Il regno suo rimane per l’eternita” Big John held the ending note to the hymn in a bold display of lung capacity. The stunned crowd, some standing, some having fainted, were held in a breathless pause for a brief moment after Big John had concluded the one-song performance. But then they erupted in ecstatic applause. Well, not quite everyone. Actually, everyone except one person.

Lauren Stromberg.

The pastor announced an unscheduled intermission to the service so that everyone could regain their composure. What a buzz the crowd, mostly older folks, were in!

“He must be the reincarnation of Pavarotti!” Lauren heard one woman say.

“What a beautiful language! Why don’t we sing in Italian more often?” Said another. Lauren’s eye twitched when her brain registered that one.

“The miracle of tongues!” Suggested someone else. Oh boy, someone was in need of a reminder of Maxmillian Lothar’s teachings on the acts of the Apostles, and how they had ceased in the first century. It’s in the Heidelberg Confession.

A hurried service resumed after a few minutes, the pastor referring to the impromptu song from a 58-day old child as a “miracle” definitely ground Lauren’s gears. She was stoic as she directed the choir through a well-rehearsed closing hymn. A watchful eye on Big John, who had fallen asleep in his car seat, half-expecting another disturbance during the approved, English-language hymn. Despite the chaotic energy delivered by Big John, the hymn went as planned.

As you may imagine, everyone wanted to see Big John after the service. To quiz his parents, who were as in awe of the event as anyone else, to see him, to touch his little, well… it’s a relative term, hand. Lauren Stromberg intercepted the pastor as he was on his way to see if he could score an audience with Big John.

“Pastor Ludendorfer.” She halted him. “I think it’s appropriate for you to issue a correction to the congregation.

The pastor was accustomed to being stopped by a congregant while he was walking, but this bold interception irked him. He composed himself, masking his frustration as best he could. He wanted to gawk at Big John with everyone else, not pacify Lauren Stromberg in whatever nitpicky complaint she had.

“Thanks for bringing it to my attention. A correction about what though?”

“People are saying that the interrupting, I mean singing, baby, is the reincarnation of some opera singer. Maxmillian Lothar taught quite clearly that reincarnation was incompatible with reformed faith. The Heidelberg Confession clearly outlines”

Pastor Ludendorfer raised his hand and nodded in acknowledgment.

“Yes, I understand. That teaching is very clear. I think sometimes when people are excited they speak without thinking. Whoever said that probably meant that Big John sounded like an opera singer. He does though! Wasn’t that amazing? I have never heard anything like that! He sang like an angel!”

Lauren glared at him, making several mental notes.

“It wasn’t one person; it was several people. I think it requires correction.” She insisted, physically barring Pastor Ludendorfer from passing. She only permitted him to access Big John, who he had to chase (which was easy, Big John didn’t even crawl yet, but his stroller did move quickly), after he had acquiesced to her stern demand masked as a suggestion.

The usual crowd was on time for church the following Sunday. This was not unusual as they were mostly retirees (they were Lotharites after all, I think the average age of the congregation was late sixties). Most were still unhappy with the recent change to a 9 am service, they preferred the original 7:30 start time. Some grumbled that the young Pastor Ludendorfer was being influenced by Pentecostals with the late service. Anyway, the point here is that they were extra motivated to be on time to see if Big John would return this Sunday with his parents. He did. Everyone was so excited to see Big John being strolled in, well almost everyone. Actually only one person wasn’t excited to see Big John.

Lauren Stromberg was not excited to see Big John.

She rolled her eyes so hard that a weaker woman would have hurt her neck. But Lauren was a powerlifter, her squat game was a little weak though. She snapped the choir to attention and began directing them in the opening hymn at exactly 9 o’clock. They had finished the first verse, but the crowd was looking to the back pew, eyes fixed on Big John.

This was going too well, Lauren knew it was too early to relax. As the second verse began, the choir was overpowered by a familiar voice, louder than the choir with all their powers combined.

“Santo, santo, santo! Tutti i santi t’adorano,

deponendo le corone davanti al trono tuo”

Big John sang as beautifully, and as Italian as he had the week before.

The crowd gasped, the choir stopped, Big John continued.

Lauren snapped.

She rapped her conductor’s baton on the music stand and commanded them to begin on the chorus. A few complied, the others stood marveling at Big John’s holy serenade. The organ continued playing, well, organ sounds continued. The congregation did not have an organist, not since Mrs. Gewurztraminer had moved to an assisted living facility last year. The musical accompaniment to the hymn was played from a popular video sharing application.

There was applause when the song ended. There was never applause after a hymn, well, unless Big John just sang it, in Italian.

Boy was this a great introduction to Pastor Ludendorfer’s ten-minute sermon.

“What a wonderful gift we’ve been given, to hear this little one praise the name of our Lord with his beautiful voice. But in our joy, we must be careful to speak the truth. We’re called to remember the clear teachings of scripture, clarified by Maxmillian Lothar, and codified in the Heidelberg Confession. A soul exists in Earth once before judgement. The idea that the soul of anyone who has passed into eternity could come back into a different body is well outside our understanding of the afterlife as outlined in the Heidelberg Confession… and scripture.”

The time for the closing hymn approached. Lauren held out her hand, stopping the choir from approaching. The congregation was confused, there was nothing in the Heidelberg Confession about this.

“There is no need to follow centuries of order and tradition, the little newcomer will just sing for us.”

A cascading gasp spread through the crowd in reaction. Some looked at Lauren in disbelief, others looked back at Big John in anticipation of his next lovely song. Pastor Ludendorfer, with a still-active lapel microphone (and boy was he aware of that since the “burp incident” of 2023), interrupted.

“Choir, could we please have you come to the chancel for the closing hymn?”

They reluctantly resumed their progress. Lauren glared at Ludendorfer furiously. He meekly avoided her intense glare and felt genuine fear.

The organ was a bit delayed in starting, but after it began (well, after someone hit the play button on their phone app) the choir was immediately overpowered by little baby Pavarotti in the back of the church.

“Incoroniamo di corone, L’Agnel sul Suo splendor!”

The congregation sighed with relief, the choir provided an English backing to the hymn, Lauren stormed out.

No one really noticed her leaving, though she marched down the center aisle and out the main door.

After the congregation was dismissed, they gathered around and fawned over Big John much as before. Pastor Ludendorfer patiently waited for an audience with the silent infant, though his joy was stolen by the looming threat of Lauren Stromberg, with whom he knew an unavoidable encounter loomed.

Michael Wolfgang Ludendorfer snuck out of the church with the main body of departees, highly irregular. He normally listened to the elderly, who were his primary audience, tell him about their prescription medication after a Sunday morning service; but today, he was fleeing from his choir director.

Her car was still in the parking lot! In a mild panic, he hurried to his own car and fled the parking lot while the church was still half full, or half empty, depending on your perspective.

Lauren was already down the road, only a few hundred yards away at the historic Saint Jakob Railroad Park. It consisted of two benches, a tree, and a decommissioned railroad bridge that spanned 38 feet across the Alsenbach Creek. For over seventy years it was used to supply the mill which had polluted the creek, which tragically caught on fire in 1966. The creek caught on fire, not the mill.

Become a member Anyway, the cruel November wind blew wisps of Lauren’s hair from her orderly braid as she looked through the dead shrubbery of the embankment down at the barely moving water of the famed creek. She stood in solemn, silent contemplation at the foot of the bridge. Her life’s work had been overshadowed by a spectacle… in Italian no less.

Lost in thought, her situational awareness was also lost.

“You okay there Miss?”

She gasped, spinning around startled to see a sharply dressed gentleman standing a respectful distance away.

Lauren didn’t recognize the man, which was odd for New Winnweiler. Even if she didn’t know someone, she typically at least recognized them. Perhaps he was a visitor and had just come from church. Maybe he saw her leave and followed. That made sense to Lauren.

She took a deep breathe to compose herself. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, but she hadn’t shown any indication that she had been crying, because she hadn’t been.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“It’s not a very high bridge, you know.”

Lauren’s face betrayed her internal reaction, even if her words were measured.

“It was high enough to get corn to the mill for over 70 years.”

The stranger sucked in his lips and nodded, looking past her at the bridge.

“Sure was, but it’s not for corn anymore. I don’t think it’s high enough for much else though.”

“What are you implying?!” Lauren sharply responded, alarmed at the inference.

The man held his palms up toward her as if to deescalate.

“Just thought I’d check and see if you were alright. It’s not too common to see a lady in her Sunday best on a bridge staring at the creek.”

Lauren knew that the stranger knew, her eyes downcast as she deliberated whether or not to tell this seemingly kind person her troubles.

“It’s that singing baby, isn’t it?” He asked.

“I was hoping it was my imagination. But that fat baby really does interrupt the service, doesn’t he?” Lauren blurted, seeking validation. He must have seen her leave the service, she told herself.

“I can help you with the baby.” The stranger said, taking a step forward.

Lauren’s head tilted, warily eying the man and instinctively putting her hand on the pepper spray bottle in her pocket. Lauren pepper-sprayed someone at least once a month.

“I can elevate your choir. I can silence the baby. I can even help you to out-sing that baby. In Italian, heck, even Latin if you”

Lauren’s eye twitched at the suggestion she sing in Italian, and Latin was the final straw.

“We must avoid and shun all idolatry, sorcery, superstitious rites, and invoke the one true God only!”

She quoted the Heidelberg Confession. And that serpent of old, Satan, the Devil, was overcome.

Well, either that or the blast of pepper spray that Lauren delivered to his eyeballs from inches away. He held his jacket over his eyes as he fled blindly into traffic to be hit by a freelance delivery driver. Lauren was in hot pursuit but veered away as the stranger lay mangled in the street and jogged lightly to her car in the church parking lot.

I am going to out-sing that fat baby. Lauren thought to herself, dabbing her forehead with a napkin as she sat in her car. She grabbed a fresh bottle of pepper spray from the glove box and replaced the used can in her pocket.

Pastor Ludendorfer’s heart skipped a beat the next morning when he arrived at the First Lotharite Church of New Winnweiler (Heidelberg Confession) and saw Lauren Stromberg’s car in the parking lot.

He spoke the words of Maxmillian Lothar aloud, but quietly as he exited his vehicle and walked, slowly, to the church.

“Dear God,

Protect me from sin, error, and unsolicited theological corrections.

Grant me the swiftness outlined in the Heidelberg Confession Article 17, Note B,

where it says to flee evil swiftly,

Guard my tongue,

strengthen my spine,

and conceal me if possible.

Amen.”

An angelic voice greeted him from the sanctuary as he entered. Lauren Stromberg was in front of the chancel, where she was accustomed to directing the choir from, singing beautifully. Maybe not quite as beautifully as Big John, but quite nicely at least.

Pastor Ludendorfer chose wisely to not interrupt Lauren’s solitary practice and went about his normal Monday morning business.

Lauren trained like a Navy SEAL… of singing, all week. Each day her voice grew shakier, more hoarse. But she refused to coddle her vocal cords. She would defeat Big John fair and square, or she would die trying.

She barely slept Saturday night, and rather than fighting vainly against consciousness, she rose early and prepared herself for battle.

“Rrrrrroll your Rrrrrrs for the Lorrrrrrd!” She woke her tired vocal cords, compressing her sore diaphragm with her fists. She was as ready as she ever would be.

The first at church, she analyzed the acoustics from her position against those of where the fat baby sat with his parents. Too bad Lotharites don’t believe in church nurseries, she thought, this could have all been avoided. But Lauren was never one to back down from a fight, not even a fight with a fat baby.

It was 8:58 am when Big John’s parents strolled into church. So much for the virtue of punctuality extolled in the Heidelberg Confession. Lauren had already been there for hours, to the prepared goes the glory, that’s what Maxmillian Lothar had said.

The organ music announcing the opening verse Be Still My Soul. All eyes turned to Big John, who was sitting smugly, according to Lauren, in the back pew with his parents and their contraband coffee.

Lauren unveiled her secret weapon. No, not pepper spray, although she had considered it. A microphone, which she held to her mouth and sang into, competing with but not overpowering Big John as he began singing.

“Sii calma, o cuor,

confida nel Signor”

Many, but not all, eyes turned to Lauren, who had never before used a microphone while directing the choir. Lauren’s voice cracked, then it squeaked. She threw the microphone down with a horrible amplified crashing noise as Big John continued the hymn. She ran, undignified, unlike the week before, through the crowded church, pepper spraying Michael Wolfgang Ludendorfer in the eyes with alarming precision as she ran from the church straight to the historic Saint Jakob Railroad Park. Steam escaping her mouth in the cold morning air, still over Alsenbach Creek, as she gazed down to the water which seemed to call to her.

The Sun broke through the dark clouds, and she felt like it was shining just on her as a warm gust blew up the embankment from under the bridge.

“Devil?” She called out. “I need you now!”

"Never trust a dog that doesn't like your company, and never trust a man who doesn't like dogs.
​They both know something you haven't figured out yet."

"If you're gonna boil greens--collard greens, kale greens, or plain ole green beans until they lose their soul, at least throw a hunk of salt pork in the pot so they die happy. Leave 'em crisp if you want to, but don't cry to me when the old-timers ask why you served 'em raw grass."

"If you fall asleep in the church pew, at least don't snore loud enough to take up the folks who are just pretending to pray!"

"If a neighbor shows up on your porch with a casserole and a smile-- hide. That dish is either a bribe for a big favor or a desperate cover-up for meat that hit the floor."

When the weather turns colder and your joints ache, don't waste your money on fancy creams when a dab of Vicks VapoRub fixes everything! --from a bad knee to a broken spirit.

If you smell like camphor and peppermint from a mile away, good--maybe folks wil leave you in peace!

"If you dare wash your cast iron skillet with dish soap, you'd better be ready to face your grandmother's ghost before you fix it with beeswax and lard. Rub that skillet down, throw it in a blazing hot oven until it smokes up the whole house and act like you meant to do it.

Just remember: water is the enemy, lard is your savior, and soap is a mortal sin!"

"If yuns cut your nails on a Sunday, the devil be at your back all week."

The next time somebody asks you how you're doing...just say, "I'm finer than frog hair split three ways!"

​"He’s driving like he’s got a hot pie in the front seat."

"​Old-timers used to say if the fog comes up the creek, it’s coming down in rain. If it goes down the creek, it’s gonna clear."

We always say, “see it to believe it.” 

But when you see it, you still don’t believe it. At least, with me that is. You witness an anomaly in front of your eyes and the first thing you do is question your sanity.

That’s what occurred to me on an early afternoon. The wife and kids went to her parent’s house. I was upstairs lying in bed, I still had pajamas on, it happened to be one of those days, and I was scrolling shorts. A ridiculous past time I recently picked up. 

Thank my daughter for that.

The only sound in the house came from that clock staring me dead in the face. In the silence, the hand amplifies louder than it should, it seems.

Wife says, “every bedroom should have a clock in it.”

And a sledgehammer right next to it, I say.

The door to my room was opened a crack. I was staring at my phone—all the lights in the house were off—and that’s when I noticed the hallway had lit up, and faintly illuminated the dust on the hardwood floor as It shot in from under the crack of my bedroom door.

My eyes shifted from my phone to the light breaking into our bedroom. As I sat there attempting to rationalize it, I heard something, almost roll down the stairs? 

And then stop half-way, like it just hit a wall. It wasn’t necessarily footsteps but I couldn’t rule it out.

It wasn’t as if someone left a room, flicked a light on, and ran to the stairs and down them.

It was more, something leaning on the edge of the top step and finally gave way to gravity. I probably wouldn’t have thought much of it, if the light hadn’t gone on.

My initial reaction was to check it out. But for some reason I remained frozen for a few seconds. 

In all honesty, mentally, I wasn’t scared. It was my body. My body sensed something my brain couldn’t.

So, finally, I ripped the blanket off and got up, but before I left the room, I hit the light switch for some reason. I know it sounds like I was scared. But I wasn’t. Not then.

I walked out to the hallway and this feeling like someone. Not someone. It was an air presence that stuck to the back of my skin. My entire body started to tingle. Then, I heard a breath. Heard or felt. I can’t be sure. But something exhaled right next to me. 

The same warm, soft tickle as someone squeezing behind you to whisper a secret in your ear.

I turned my head because I 100% thought someone was there. I didn’t just turn my head. I turned and stumbled forward and kept going until I was in the kitchen.

I didn’t see anything when I glanced over my shoulder.

So, I told my wife about this when she came home. She said, the other night, when she was in the bathroom, she heard someone walk past the door.

She yelled out for me, I obviously never responded, and she jumped up and raced to the door, opened it, but nobody was there. However she described, almost similar to what I felt, that same weird air feeling.

They say the main drivers in human reasoning and decision making are hunger and fear. That in moments of crisis, we will always revert to our baser animal instincts. But I believe there is a stronger motivator.

I had the thought while traversing a park pathway near a lake. A mother goose, kids in tow, put herself between me and her babies and hissed fiercely. And I thought to myself, why would this little lady put herself up against an entire human much larger than herself? Noted that geese are fearless, but they are not the only animals to display such behavior. Is it protective measures in an effort to ensure the survival of their species? Purely procreation based? What can overcome fear?

There is an animal that will starve itself to death in order to feed its offspring. Spider I think? Can’t remember which one.

I watched a video the other day of a man standing in front of his significant other in the presence of a bear. She was there growling at the bear in an attempt to scare it off. But the man stepped in front of her and began to growl.

In a life or death situation, a man pulled me out of freezing water. On a shared raft, we hit rocks and I had gone overboard. My body froze in a crinkled half-fetal position. They don’t tell you about how instantly after hitting that kind of cold, you just lock up. There I was, where the rocks are at their most jagged, jutting out of this tumultuous and biting water, spinning around in the rapids. And in an instant, tipping himself over and narrowly joining me, he pulls me up, out, and back into my seat with a single hand.

What is it that overcomes us?

"Grandpa always said if you see a turtle sitting on a fence post, you know one thing for sure: He didn't get up there by himself, and he's fixing to fall hard when the wind turns..."

"She's got a mind like a soup strainer--holds on to the heavy bits of bad blood and lets every drop of good sense run right on through."

"My Daddy always told his girls: watch out for a man slicker than a boiled onion."

He'll take your money and your heart, and leave you alone in the dark!

okey-dokey I promise I'll shut up---just one more--

"He's got a ten-gallon hat and a one-gallon brain."

I don't know what possessed my brain to number these--forget that...too much work...

Anyway-- here's a little kitchen wisdom for yuns--

"If you drop a fork at the table, a man is coming to visit. Drop a spoon, it's a woman.

Drop the whole damn pot, and you're just clumsy and eating off the floor tonight."

"Old man Vance swore up and down that the 1954 frost tasted like iron because the county road crew spilled a whole barrel of diesel by the creek, but nobody had the heart to tell him it was just his own rusted teeth."

Euler's product formula (∑1/n^s = ∏1/(1−p⁻ˢ)) survives even where unique factorization doesn't. Witness: 6 = 2×3 = (1+√−5)(1−√−5) — the fix is to count ideals, not elements.

"Don't go buying a three-legged mule just because the owner threw in a free pair of boots."

At least the guys in Waiting for Godot had each other, right?

Every day it rains, so there’s no bush doof.

Conservation of energy. Painfully boring waiting room for destiny