What I think I’m doing here: Some more short fiction (in the form of a single long sentence).

In case you missed it, just in case you happened to miss my last missive, I am reaching out, following up, I am inquiring to see what the status might be of my message, the one I sent you, the one I am afraid you might have missed in the Sturm und Drang of your inbox, in the welter of other correspondence, all important, I’m sure, all essential, of course, but including my own, my own carefully crafted communication, my metaphorical message in a bottle, my attempt to connect, the connection that I fear has been missed in the confusion of your busy and meaningful life, although my concern is, my anxiety is, that perhaps this earlier email was not simply missed but seen and forgotten, read and ignored, delivered to the trash bin with no response necessary, perhaps even deleted, blocked and reported as spam, with a sneer, with rolled eyes, with a sigh of frustration, which seems entirely possible, is definitely within the realm of imagination, given the nature of our last interaction, our final conversation, which I did not think was final at the time, but perhaps was, given the lack of response to my previous 137 attempts to contact you via various means, including hiring one of those planes pulling a giant banner, which, I am afraid, you may have missed, perhaps having just spilled your coffee on the way to an important meeting when the Piper PA-18 Super Cub reached cruising altitude, banner streaming in the wind, and sopping up the spill with a handful of paper napkins and cursing, your attention diverted by the spreading stain on your blouse and the importance of your upcoming meeting, you failed to look skyward and note the bright banner pleading “Come Back Monica” circling the city and so did not reply, did not show up on my doorstep, did not call me on my phone, did not send me a letter or an email, or engage the services of a singing telegram company, did not send a DM or IM or MSN Messenger message, and so I suspect that you may have missed it, although if you did see it, please know that I wanted to include “PLEASE” but the pilot was concerned about the increased drag created by this all-caps appeal, the additional linear feet of fabric required, and it also would have cost an extra $350, but I think the “PLEASE” was implied anyway and I suspect its absence was not an issue, more likely you did not see the banner at all, more probably it flew through the clear summer sky unnoticed except by young children who, clutching the hands of their caretakers, pointed and made engine noises, and all this brings me back to the original reason for this message, which was just to check in, in case you missed it, my earlier message.

I’d like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn

What I think I’m doing here: A foray into fiction (in an early draft, messing around mode). Also, I’d like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.

My friend said that I needed a LinkedIn profile. Made it sound like I might as well take my resume and set it on fire and flush the ashes down the toilet. This act of immolation being, in fact, as effective as submitting job applications without a LinkedIn profile. It is the first thing they’ll check, he said. I need to go hop on a call, he said.

My friend has a job at a large company that pays well (I do not). He owns a house (I do not). He has, I suspect, more of a plan for retirement than my own, which is, more or less, death. I decide to set aside my novel and create a LinkedIn profile.

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A Wolf’s Christmas Eve

What I think I’m doing here: I wrote a little Christmas story for my kids (with thanks to Thomas Hardy’s The Oxen and Isaiah 11). Editorial suggestions from my offspring included the following: “maybe the wolves could pull Santa’s sleigh,” “keep the story going, but this time the farm animals trick the wolves,” and “maybe the wolves could wave with their little paws and say ‘Merry Christmas.'”

Silas the wolf loped through the snow. That is what wolves do, they do not trot like a horse or hop like a rabbit or frolic like a dog: they lope with long strides through dark, snowy forests with gleaming eyes and sharp teeth. Silas was a hungry wolf. He had not eaten for many days, and he dreamed of a feast of elk shared with the brothers and sisters of his old pack. But, he was alone now, a dark shadow in search of a meal. Right now, he would be happy with even the snack of a wayward squirrel that had ventured too far from its tree.

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