Maddie

Here you are my sweet girl,

In my arms, having taken your last breath.

Eighteen years you were by my side. 

A young mama whose babies were taken from you. 

I took you home as my baby.

You became my best friend, my silent advisor.

The stillness in my racing mind.

The accepting observer when I fumbled.

I caress you now,

I don’t want to let you go.

I slide to the floor with you in my arms,

And cry your name.

I gently wrap you for your crossing,

As must be done.

The pain takes hold, 

So pure, 

So necessary. 

Inspired by Lessons From My Dog. Image by 俊后生.

Muse

I finally caught my muse–in her office, downtown. Quite lucky, really, because I hadn’t made an appointment, and she doesn’t do Zoom.

Still, I had to wait for her to get off the phone (because she is always on the phone) dispensing what she has taken to calling customer support and what—with the rise of AI—is apparently all that most writers are needing these days.

     Not me.

     “I miss your little stories in my inbox each morning,” she said. “They'd make my day just a little less dim.”

     “I’ve been having some trouble getting started,” I said.

Inspired by my customary procrastination. Image by Meta’s AI.

Lessons from my Dog

Nim died on Wednesday, and like every good queen she left a legacy. So much magic fell our way because of her: Friendships, music, more puppies. Early on she taught us things like the importance of communication, exercise, volunteering our precious time. As she aged, our people/dog circle got tighter, then eventually smaller as she lost her own crew. First Siko, then Jude, then Lucy. Even in her sixteenth year she gave us teachings and the gifts of intuition and patience and ultimately compassion. She showed me that grief is idiosyncratic. With Siko it was visceral. With Nim it’s existential.

Inspired by: Nimoosh, 2009-2025. Photo by YJB Images.

Economics 100: Inequality

Today’s hundred-word seminar is about how to create income inequality. First, cut taxes, and make sure the rich get 90% of the benefit. Season with gaslight: tell the Base it’ll eventually trickle down to them; and besides, tariffs will replace taxes, and it’s foreigners who pay tariffs, so we don’t even need taxes. Next, demolish the government. DOGE it down. Cut meddlesome bureaucrats, scientists, programs. Cut education funding and delete all statistics. (You don’t want people analyzing what’s happening for themselves.) Finally, let oligarchs take over the government functions you’ve cut, and let them charge your citizen-suckers for them. $QED$.

Inspired by Economics 100, the first installment of my 3-part drabble degree program, and by corruption and grifters everywhere. Image by Stationjack.

Acid Reflux and a Cracked Tooth

“Ah, yes, bottom left molar. We’ll freeze the area, then we’ll take an x-ray.” She wasn’t sure whether her dentist’s soft-spoken running commentary was meant for her or him, but she found it soothing. She had been afraid with her mouth stuck open wide that she’d choke on the stomach acid in her throat. But her reflux had subsided under his calm voice. Next time at dinner when tensions flare and she tastes acid, she’ll remember that voice, and perhaps she won’t bite down so hard and crack a bit of tooth off and almost choke on the ragged shard.

Inspired by Here I Go Again and a recent trip to the dentist (though the “tensions” at the dinner table are entirely fictitious). Image by Shutterstock.

Here I Go Again

Paul was her first real boyfriend. Desperate to be in love, he happened to come along at the right place and time, a drunken house-party. They were complete opposites. He was a rocker and she a preppy. She slowly acclimatized and even started to like hanging out in the McDonald’s parking lot blaring Whitesnake from the Camaro. She retired Ralph Lauren for a white leather fringe jacket. She had hoped he was an artist in-the-making but when on her birthday, he wrote her a card that read “Happy Birthday Angle” her spelling elitism got the better of her and it ended.

Inspired by Doxymoron. Illustration by Roberto Atzeni.

From a Letter to Ray in Japan

The last time you wrote, you were about to move into your own place, and you asked me for any tips I might have about bachelorhood. I have none. But I would be interested in hearing about anything you’ve discovered. If you have nothing particularly interesting to share, then tell me something about Japan, since my knowledge is essentially limited to what I’ve learned from Ian Fleming’s books and Saturday morning cartoons.
     I also read somewhere that the Japanese find pubic hair particularly offensive, so I shan’t enclose any with this letter in case it is opened by the authorities.

Inspired by Doxymoron. Excerpted from a letter dated August 24, 1986. Image by the author with assistance from Google Translate, Image Creator, and a font by Norio Kanisawa.