All Apologies

My apologies for the spam sent thanks to my blog getting hacked. Hopefully, it's no longer an issue. (Let me know if it's still a problem.)

I know it's been a long time since I've posted on here. I've got a few other blogs, and I'm working on my sci-fi dystopia novels, but I've mostly been posting on my fan page. Click here to check it out.

DROPPING IN FOR COFFEE

Dropping in for Coffee

by Lorna Marie Larson

The odd whirring noise approaching the front pasture made Matilda roll over in her sleep, but teenaged Charlie always practiced oblivious, deathlike slumber. Neither occupant of the Georgian farmhouse noticed the brilliant light that accompanied the craft, however, or the many tall, neat rows of budding corn now trampled under its fifty-foot circular bulk. It towered over the house with nearly four stories of height, and a huge white cloud of exhaust filled the air.

A gust, like letting out breath held too long on a dare, accompanied the opening of a rectangular hatch, and two curious creatures hobbled through the mist. One was tall and thin, the other of a much shorter, stockier build, both sporting lime-green hair, asymmetrically cut silver jumpsuits, and the taller a rather large digital watch. Their chins also came to a stark point and upwards curl like they were drawn by a calligraphy pen.

“Rehiledosrequesaterations quenek, Lektar?”

They looked at each other, the taller of the two pointing at the large button on their matching belts and gesturing that only his was lit. In a deep monotone, he said, “Sir, I believe you have forgotten to turn on your translation belt. That could make our first contact with this species difficult.”

“Oh, yes,” Drelkor said, “I knew I was forgetting something in my excitement to conquer this world. It will be so nice to not get our pay docked, yet again, for failing to meet our quota. We stand firm this time, okay? No more sob stories, or we’ll both end up starving and stranded on Homeworld like most of our fellow Giadatorians. And I, for one, am not overly keen on that life. Give me reconstituted meal packs any day over rotting scraps thrown to the poor sods not out traveling to better planets than our own ravaged Giadatoria.

“Have you been able to track their local transmissions any better now that we have landed? I mean, I am glad that we don’t have to deal with the traditional greeting of Trinador of vomiting our hellos—although the stench of that swampy place did make it easy—but it is hard to believe the signals we have received showing nearly every Earthling either out to con each other for the sake of reproduction, out to kill the rest, or using that strange science--what was it called?”

“’Flour-en-seeks,’ sir.”

“Yes, using flourenseeks to catch killers. It seems these aliens must greet each other with those guns of theirs, making a good round of puking seem preferable, and must be a most primitive people. I think our laser weapons will subdue them all easily, and we should be calling in our second-wave team and using our pay to go to Pleasure Planet before you know it.”

“Yes, sir,” Lektar said without hint of emotion.

“I’d tell you to get in the conquering spirit, but I know your only excitement is over alien knowledge. Too bad. I imagine you don’t even enjoy Pleasure Planet.”

“On the contrary, sir. I have great aspirations to peruse their rather grand library.”

“Like I said…”

“Sir, I have been able to connect with their main worldwide network. It seems they prefer to interact textually and usually in under 70 characters. I wonder why that is. Perhaps their throats are overly susceptible to dryness and their fingers are very weak.”

“How strange—Ouch!”

“Sir!” Lektar exclaimed as he went to Drelkor’s side in a vegetable garden full of gnomes, one of which had been toppled over so that its pointed hat was stuck into the dirt and its feet were in the air.

“I think I found the problem, Lektar. These creatures are much smaller than we thought. ‘Sorry, Earthling, I did not mean to fall on you like that. Are you uninjured?’”

The night sounds of crickets and hooting owls could be heard as the aliens waited for a reply.

“Perhaps we need one of their texting devices to properly communicate with it, sir.”

Drelkor surveyed the scene of these little immobile creatures and then caught a glimpse of a large figure lording over them, it’s back straight, arms outstretched, perhaps in a form of communication to the underlings. “They must be waiting for permission to speak from their leader over there,” he said, heading in for a closer look.

“Mr. Earthling, sir, we have come from a far-off planet to, uh, make peaceful relations with your people and learn of your fascinating flourenseeks science. Please accept our greeting.”

The scarecrow was silent.

Lektar walked around the tall creature. “Some problem has befallen these people. They seem to be unable to move. Perhaps they live in a different time dilation and are just moving very slowly. Communication may be impossible, but it will make our, shall we say, other plans more easily attainable.”

Then Lektar scanned the scarecrow up close with his digital watch.

“Sir, the life signs I read earlier are not coming from this creature. He seems to be impaled from behind and left here to die. I believe these creatures are dead and used as macabre decorations, perhaps to frighten away predators like ourselves. These humans may be far more formidable than we thought. Perhaps a possible trip to Pleasure Planet is not worth the danger such a morbid race holds.”

Drelkor mused for a moment, looking at the dark farmhouse, its screen door creaking in the slight breeze. “No, no, we have a job to do. I can’t risk it, no matter how violent these Earthlings may be.”

They looked at each other as if deciding who must head towards the dark dwelling first. Drelkor’s nod made Lektar take a deep breath and hobble forward on his spindly legs, ducking under the awning as he reached the top step. He then walked forward right into the door.

“Sir, this door seems to be malfunctioning.” He then walked back and forth across the porch trying to find the sensor.

“It must be voice activated.”

“Door, open.”

Nothing happened.

“Door, unlock.

“Door, are you password protected?

“I don’t understand it, sir. It must be stuck.” He pushed and pounded on the door as hard as he could to get it to budge.

Upstairs, a light switched on and Matilda, in curlers and white-and-pink floral cotton nightdress, started barking angrily as she grabbed a fuzzy pink bathrobe and headed down the stairs, through the kitchen, and towards the door, lighting up the pitch black as she came. “Blazes! Who in tarnation would be calling at this hour?”

Upon reaching the door and turning on the porch light, she automatically attempted to put a Southern hospitality smile on her face and primp her hair, only then realizing that her curlers had gone askew, one falling half into her eyes; she blew it out of her face as she opened the door.

“Hello, lady Earthling. Your door seems to be inoperable.”

Matilda looked the two beings standing on her doorstep up and down, especially eyeing their green hair and shiny silver clothing. “A bit early for Halloween, don’t you think?”

“Halloween? We are here to—“

Matilda looked beyond them and tried to refocus her eyes. “What’s that out in my cornfield? Holy—“ 

“That is our ship. We are here from Giadatoria to observe your planet and see if your people require conquering,” stated Drelkor proudly.

“You guys…come here…in that thang? Wait. Require conquerin’? Come again?”

Drelkor looked confused and stuttered, “Come AGAIN? But we just got here and have no intention of leaving before the completion of our mission.”

Lektar fiddled with his watch.

“No, I mean what are you saying about us needin’ to be conquered?  Don’t nobody NEED to be conquered. We’re just fine and y’all can go back home in your giant space monstrosity and go about your business.”

“Again, we just got here. It seems too early to tell such a thing. We are required to be thorough.”

“Fine. Fine. Let me get the coffee on. I’m gonna need some if I’m gonna be entertaining aliens in my nightclothes.”

“Coffee?” Drelkor asked.

Matilda shook her head of this craziness and started the pot brewing. I am def’nitely still dreamin’.

“Sir, I have accessed their mass communication web and discovered something called Wikipedia, which appears to have very accurate information on a large variety of subjects. It says coffee is an enjoyable, yet addictive, beverage containing large amounts of caffeine, and the substance is very commonly ingested in this area. This woman appears to not only be an addict but is obviously ingesting this substance to be awake while talking to us. This is good. Oh, and there is a footnote that a group known as Mormons finds the substance to be an abomination to God, despite worship of the substance being much more common. How interesting to find a planet with such differing belief systems—I wonder why their empire does not enforce common beliefs as a matter of course. And the chemical properties of coffee appear to not have any major negative effects on our systems in small amounts.”

“Good,” he whispered conspiratorially, “ See if you can delve deeper into their writings to find their greatest weaknesses. They just might be stupid enough to write down vulnerable information and put it out there for anyone to look up.”

He put on a fake smile for Matilda, showing off the blueness of his teeth. “May we imbibe with you of this coffee?”

“Can ya have some? Yeah, sure. No one’s gonna say I don’t provide good Southern hospitality. Even to aliens, I guess. So you’re out to conquer us, huh? What should I call y’all? You got names? I assume it’s more than you two and that big gravy boat ya got out there.” My dreams are getting’ weirder and weirder. I really gotta lay off the mint juleps late at night.

“I am known as Shiphead Drelkor, and this is Sciencehead Lektar,” he said, putting out his elbow to shake on it.

Matilda just looked at his arm bumping gesture, continuing to repeat, as if the alien was having some sort of seizure that looked a lot like a chicken dance. “You okay there, sweetie? I’m Matilda, but folks all call me Matty.”

Sitting down and gesturing them towards small table covered in a red-and-white-checkered cloth, she asked, “Well, then, what do y’all think of yer first Earthly kitchen?”

The aliens were repeatedly bending over in a sitting motion and getting no sitting done.

“What’s wrong with y’all now?”

Lektar asked, “Are they voice activated?”

“What, now? I just meant for you folks to sit down.”

“Yes,” said Drelkor, “but how, exactly, is that accomplished? Your chairs, like your door, do not seem to be functional. Do they only respond to your voice?”

“They respond to ploppin’ down your derriere on ‘em,” and she pulled out the chair nearest Drelkor and shoved him downward onto it.

Lektar mimicked the movement. “Fascinating. Manual chairs. This is definitely a unique world. As to your décor,” he said, looking at the cow and chicken motifs on nearly every surface, “do all Earthlings decorate with such homage to animals?”

“Come again? Do we do wut?”

“Unless I am mistaken, you have lesser lifeforms—animals—everywhere in this room. That, for instance, appears to be a miniature of grazing animal.”

“My cow cookie jar? Well, that’s just country, hun. We’re farm folk.

“Cookies do sound amight good, though, with our coffee,” she said, getting up.

Lektar said, “You decorate with animals. I believe these are beings of lesser intelligence you slaughter for food, are they not? I assume this is a way you show appreciation for their sacrifice. It is commendable and says a lot about your species, although the macabre décor outdoors did lead us to a different conclusion.”

“The mac-uh-what? You didn’t like my garden gnomes? But they’re cute, honey.”

“Our species does not tend to find dead creatures “cute” decorations.”

“Dead creatures? What?? They’re just ceramic statues, kids, not anything that was ever alive.” She chuckled and reached into the cookie jar, grabbing out three large cookies, and passed one to each of the group, speaking quickly, “These will go great with your coffee. No, Licks-Tar, was it? We Southern women decorate with animals because it’s what we know, what our world is made up of, you see? We raise the animals to eat, yes, but, well, there’s just something about the feel of a Southern kitchen, just like there’s somethin’ about the taste of Southern cookin.’ It’s just ‘home.’”

“To answer your questions, no, I am called Lektar, and my vision has been corrected to the established parameters. Also, our home is the “gravy boat” parked outside, and the color is the same gray inside as outside. This room is nearly causing a sensory overload in comparison.”

Matilda got up to get the coffee, mugs, and a bottle of vanilla off of a shelf, pouring the latter into the coffee pot, swishing it a little, and pouring steaming mugs for everyone. “Well, now, I think I caught most of that brainy jargon. If you like the look of my kitchen, wait until you taste my coffee. I add vanilla, you know. It makes all the difference.”

“Whoa, honey!” she exclaimed, stopping Lektar from gulping it right away, “You’ll burn your mouth that way. Let me put some creamer in it first. And sugar?”

“Sugar?” asked Drelkor.

Lektar read from his watch again, “Substance responsible for both great happiness and great illness. It is also addictive. We may handle it in small amounts, however.”

Matilda poured creamer and sugar into their mugs. “Great illness? It’s just coffee. Some can take it black, but not me. And mornin’ ain’t nothin’ fun on a farm without coffee. What are ya’ll really doing here, anyway? No offense, but you don’t really strike me as the conquerin’ type.”

She looked at the others not knowing quite what to do with the hot beverage. “Try dunking the cookies in it like this.”

“We are the scouting party,” said Lektar, “We must determine your planet’s worth. It appears the majority of your planet spends much of its time posting photographs of lesser animals and kitchens similar to yours, and generally rambling about the minutia of their day. Your people could be conquered with a simple attack on your mass communication system; I’m not sure this planet is even worth our time.”

Drelkor was quickly dunking and devouring his cookie. “This is much more enjoyable than our nutritional supplements. May I have another serving, please? Lektar, you aren’t dunking the cookies. I have never tasted anything like this before.”

“You really don’t have anything like coffee or cookies where you’re from? Here’s some more of both, huh. Where is that, anyway? Mars or somethin’?”

Drelkor continued to devour the cookies and coffee at a superhuman pace.

Lektar, looking perplexed at Matilda’s comment, pressed some buttons on his watch. “No, no, Mars is your neighboring planet. Surely you have been there yourself many times.”

“Been to Mars?” she laughed, “Hell, no. We don’t go gallivanting off to different planets. I don’t even really believe we landed on the Moon. Seemed too staged to me, like the astronauts were on wires or somethin.’”

She looked with mothering concern at Drelkor, “You might wanna cut back on that coffee, sweetie. Three cups in five minutes might make your head spin.”

Drelkor stared sternly at Lektar and put his hands up to his head in panic, “You did not say this substance would cause my head to detach!”

“Hold onto your britches, you crazy alien. It’s a phrase we Earthlings say. You’ll be peachy keen soon enough.”

Lektar, please look on that Wikipedia for what she means by holding my britches and keening peaches.”

“CALM DOWN. That’s what it means, silly goose. You know, if you tell your alien bosses that we aren’t worth conquering . . . and we really probably aren’t worth your time, mind you . . . I could hook you two up with as much coffee as you could drink for as long as you want. Just stop by when you’re in the neighborhood and I’ll supply you with coffee and cookies, as long as you don’t, ya know, blow Earth up and whatnot. You got creamer on your planet?”

“Regretfully, no,” said Lektar. “And sir, a goose is that animal there on the wall, but I am unsure what would make one silly.”

Matilda decided to just try to move things along and give up on being understood. “Well, you’re in luck,” she said, getting out paper grocery bags and filling them with sacks of sugar, bottles of creamer, and cans of coffee, “the Safeway is closed this time of night but we’ve got plenty in our pantry ‘cause we go through it real quick.” Oh, Lordy, I wonder if I’m gonna ever wake up from dreamin,’ she thought as she handed them each a bag and showed them to the door.

Matilda followed Lektar and a jittery Drelkor out to the ship, still only half believing them, and watched as the hatch closed and the whirring and smoke started up again. I didn’t just see that. It’s all just a dream. I’m gonna go back in the house and wake up here real soon.

Zombielike, she somehow made it up to her bed and under the safety of her patchwork quilt. What seemed like mere moments later, however, a clanking of cupboard doors down in the kitchen could be heard, jostling her from sleep.

Charlie’s nasal frustrated voice yelled out, “Ma, where the heck’s all the coffee?”

A BURN BY ANY OTHER NAME

I am staring at this second-degree burn on my belly, for this particular shirt I am cooking and cleaning in is misbehaving. The burn was from last week when I forgot to worship at the altar at the steam juicer. 

There was a mere trickle of juice coming out, and my hand was cramping up holding the clamp open, so I removed the clamp to get that last tiny bit out of the contraption.

Ha! It rebelled! 

Suddenly, the half-full bottle I was hurrying to fill before the juice cooled too much to seal it was suddenly overflowing and I had no clamp!

Out spewed the watermelon-pomegranate-blueberry juice like an evil pen of death! And it wrote across my tummy, practically burning a hole through my shirt!

But here's the odd part: it looks exactly like I wrote my name!

It seems I found a way to actually brand myself. 

Freeeaky.

DEEP THOUGHTS ABOUT LIFE DIRECTION

Okay, here's the deal... Now, I'm gonna sound like a fruitcake, so bear with me for a bit. 

Now and then, I see flashes of things that latter happen to me. Well, no, that's not quite right. I see flashes of people I later meet, just normal early interactions with new people who end up holding key positions in Lornaworld. Life is fluid, so they may not stay for an incredibly long time, but they make a massive mark.

These images happen when I am nearly asleep or nearly awake, so it's hard to remember them well enough until I can tell you exactly what's going to happen in the scenario as it unfolds; sadly, it is often only then that I remember the earlier flashes. Now and then, I remember them and get a chance to really analyze (and fret over) them.

 A confusing one was when I was yelling and my world was blurry, but I was calling across the house and had not grabbed my glasses in my haste. The first one had me quite freaked out. I was a child at the time. And this one that happened today has me feeling frazzled.

I saw a girl. She looked youngish but could have just had a vague age, such as being short and wide eyed. She had tightly curled Afro hair, but African-American was only part of her heritage, for she was more caramel-skinned and her hair looked brownish. 

She was happy to be in my class.

The sense that came with this image of her was quite emphatically that my role is to be a teacher, something I have basically run away from due to how stressful it is to pour your heart and soul into presenting something and getting a sense (especially for an empath) of boredom and hateful loathing coming back from most of the people in the room. There are exceptions, of course, but one happy, appreciative student doesn't effectively compensate for that much "don't want to be here."

When I helped teach a writing class, tutored, acted as teacher assistant, and even subbed for professors, and I enjoy public speaking and performance--I have never felt quite as alive as when onstage--but the emotional stress from uninterested students who rarely put any effort into assignments and you have to jump through hoops to keep their attention was just too upsetting.

However, I have been feeling lost away from school, and my father was a professor who was cherished by many--and greatly hated by those unwilling to learn.

Anyway, I guess I will reconsider things. I was told I could always come back as a poetry TA for fun, and I know I partially taught many of my classes, although that may have just been my own obsession with being heard. 

Yet, oh, how I have missed that audience. I have been half a person without it.

Recently waking during anaphylactic shock and being unable to breathe--a miiiighty scary experience, mind you, and reminiscent of when my first roommate tried to strangle me--has me remembering what Dr. Wayne Dyer, self-help guru, used to always quote, "Don't die with your music still in you."

I shall endeavor to, EpiPen at the ready for the randomness of life and all things anti-Lornaworld, share my "music." I know I can do many things, including sing in such a way that gets me gushing with compliments about its beauty, actually, and reaching others through helping them open up and be heard.

So, I will endeavor to see how much of my music I can let be heard, including rethinking my stance on teaching and also letting go of my need for sharing my writing to come with, well, anything. I have had trouble writing and sharing my fiction and creative nonfiction because it felt like shouting to an empty room, but knowing I could, quite literally, drop dead at any moment--for that is the nature of mortality, after all, even though we try to ignore it--has made me want to share more of myself now, for now is all we can really count on.

And they tell me it is a gift, so it should really be unwrapped.

FRUIT: A PROSE POEM

Fruit means love in my book. Picking, shopping for, and processing fruit are the few happy family memories I have. And my father would sometimes bring home gifts of exotic fruit for me to try; special attention I was too rarely given. It was bonding time with my father, sometimes my sister, and (in the very early days) with my mother. And my sister and I even picked fruit for my grandmother to process. And fruit gets associated with Grandma's Sunday Dinner Jell-o salads. And those dinners were the only times I saw my brothers (and my sister when she defected from Mother's) for years. And my sister loved how I cut a watermelon. And she almost never showed any appreciation of me during the time, so her words were ripe-watermelon-sweet. Hence fruit=love in Lornaworld. Granted, a pomelo is a tease, because it is a normal-sized sour grapefruit wrapped in three inches of giftwrap. And a prickly pear cactus is just an emo fruit trying to get attention while having nothing sweet and no real substance inside. Kumquats are the joke of nature for looking so sweet and adorable while being just about the most sour things on Earth. But pomegranates are love and sex and the real Eden "apple" that both Eve and Persephone could never resist. A Georgian friend, the one who called me The Antichrist, gets tormented by my talk of crunchy peaches that pass here for the sweet ripe lusciousness of his hometown, but really I'd like to share a pomegranate with him. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Men have offered to give me pomegranates--even on their naked personage, mind you--but soon realized my love was merely for the fruit, not the nuts.

GOAL: ORGANIZING PAPER

"Where is Lorna?" you may have been asking. Well, rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated. I have only been mostly dead--more of a death-warmed-overish feeling. But I am working with my doctor to change my diet, take helpful supplements and medications, and create a whole new me. They say every seven years each and every single cell in our bodies has changed into a new cell; I hope it doesn't take quite that long to feel better and stop having random allergic reactions that reinforce the rumor that I am an alien by proving I am intolerant to the food, flora, fauna, air, and water on this planet--never mind the Evil Day Star and it's daily attempts to annihilate me if I venture beyond my dark sanctuary. Ahhh, well, such is the way of things. And summer with it's bright and beautiful toxicities will only last so long.  :-)

I have a new goal: Every piece of paper in Lornaworld has a home, preferably the recycling bin or shredded onto the compost pile but allowable in the filing cabinet or in a binder on a bookshelf. 

My results, so far, have included the following:

• Filing away several papers in file folders by turning ones in the old and useless filing system inside out for a blank tab or using labels to cover old tabs so that I can write on new names

• Labeling the front of the file cabinet drawers with white pieces of paperboard I cut to fit (an index card would also work) and using my Brother label maker. Now, even if I drop dead (not to temp fate), people will know where to find my vital records.   

• Fitting a shoe box across the filing cabinet (like a folder) and using the return envelopes from bills I've paid online or sales junk mail to organize receipts by month. (You could also have them by category.) Any important purchase or monthly receipts I am keeping elsewhere, are marked on the front of the envelope, such as monthly bills kept under the name of the utility company or medical receipts kept separately for tax purposes.

• Instead of an inbox overflowing on the desk as a reminder of work to be done, I have an urgent folder at the front of the top filing drawer for those bills and such and am telling myself to spend time on what's in the folder every weekday. 

• For bulky things that are urgent, a note is put in the urgent folder explaining what needs to be done and where to find the information (e.g. "File taxes by October 15th, preferably much sooner. See '2013 Taxes' folder.")

• I am including folder categories for any junk mail I may be keeping but not intending to use soon enough for it to go in the "Urgent" folder, such as an oil change or restaurant coupon that has a month before expiration. The "Weekly Ads" and "Monthly Ads" folders mean I can recycle everything in them as new ones come in but will always know where one is if I am interested in a good deal on an unplanned service.

• There is a folder for restaurant coupons I might actually use if a friend wants to go out for frozen yogurt or something.

• Grocery ads for the current week (and month for month-long sales) and coupons are kept in a tote bag in the car for ad matching or regular shopping trips. 

• I have a set amount of space for these papers, and more than that requires purging. This set amount of space is vital to making sure it doesn't all just become highly organized clutter. 

• I have included a wish list folder for when I see something glorious out of my current price range that I do intend on buying later and don't want to lose the information.

• I have both hanging folders and file folders so that things stay in place better and aren't constantly falling over.

• I am not currently concerned with whether tabs are going left, middle, right, middle, left, middle, etc., because I am not yet sure of the final categories. If two folders obscure each other, I'll deal with that later.

• There is a folder for warranties and manuals, and this counts as a major purchase to be written on the front of the monthly receipt envelope but have the actual receipt kept with the warranty information.

• I am considering having a master list of categories at the front of the first filing drawer so that I don't go looking under B for birth certificate when I should be looking under V for vital records.

The basic system is in place now, so I just have to make my boxes of random papers and my incoming mail all gets organized within that system. The hope is to never again be fumbling for where I put something and to never feel buried alive in all of the random paper we seem to accumulate.

If you like this idea, but do not have a filing cabinet, consider that BYU sold them for $5 at their recent surplus sale, so check out your local university's monthly surplus sales for used office supplies. (This is a great place to get monitors, cheap somewhat outdated computers, keyboards, desks, etc.) You can also luck out on steals on eBay, Craig's List, and KSL if you live locally to the seller, or just use an empty office paper box.

A THOUGHT-PROVOKING TAKE ON OUR FUTURE

Enjoy an intriguing sci-fi adventure by my dear friend James Wymore for a mere 99 cents this week!

This future Earth is thought-provoking and has the technical reliance and intense Big Brother surveillance we often question whether would make our lives much worse, not better.

The best line? "There are no computers in hell."