fiction
The Converso’s Boots: A Pinball Meditation on Walmart Socks
Shining Them On: Firing Orders in a Reformed Universe
The Morning Desk: An Eclectic Pinball Meditation
A note to the reader: This is a meditation, not a thesis. The grammar here is a bit like a pinball machine—the thoughts might bounce off the bumpers in ways you don’t expect, and the timing is more important than the syntax. It’s meant to be observed, not dissected. If you’re looking for a diagram, you’re in the wrong place. We’re just checking the spark plugs today.
Did you ever notice how much effort we spend these days trying to rename things that have worked just fine for a thousand years?
I went to a new urologist the other day. Now, you’d think a urologist would be the last person on earth to be confused about the basic “plumbing” of the human race. But before we even got to the reason I was sitting on that crinkly paper table, she introduced herself with her “preferred pronouns.”
I just sat there. I didn’t argue. I’ve reached an age where I’ve decided to just “shine ’em on.” It’s like being a Converso in 15th-century Spain—you nod at the official religion of the day so they don’t take your shoes and clothes.
Because that’s the real threat, isn’t it? It’s not just the words they want; it’s the leverage. In the old days, if a man didn’t have a wife who could weave and darn, he was walking on the bare floorboards of life. But today, the system has a different way of leaving you barefoot. If you don’t use the right “grammar” in the office or the exam room, they don’t just correct you—they strip you. They go for the “shoes and socks”—your livelihood, your standing, your ability to walk through the world without being a “deviant.”
They’ve made the price of “integrity” so high that you have to choose between your beliefs and your ability to stand on your own two feet.
We’ve “reformed” the language so much that we’ve turned the most important things in life into a mockery. Take “Marriage.” It used to be a fortress. It was a binding treaty between two people who realized that if they didn’t weave and hunt together, they’d end up on Skid Road.
But then we decided that “weaving and darning socks” was a form of oppression. So we outsourced the socks to Walmart—where they’re cheap, by the way—and we outsourced the “protection” to the State. Now, marriage isn’t a fortress anymore; it’s more like a temporary lease on an apartment. And the moment one person decides they don’t like the wallpaper, the law shows up to help them tear the building down and take whatever “shoes and socks” you have left in the closet.
I look at the young men in college today and I feel for them. They’re walking through a minefield of “reformed” definitions, knowing that one wrong word could leave them penniless and barefoot before they even get a job. They’re told their utility is toxic and their integrity is optional. So, a lot of them are doing the only logical thing: they’re withdrawing. They’re “keeping on truckin’,” but they’re doing it alone. They’ve realized that if the “estate” is just an empty box and the “contract” is a trap for their boots, there’s no point in signing the paper.
I’m fortunate. In my house, we speak the original language. We decided a long time ago that divorce was off the table, but murder wasn’t. We didn’t build a huge financial estate, and we didn’t care to. Our number one goal was simply to have someone to grow old with.
That’s a “16-cylinder” goal in a world that’s running on lawnmower engines.
I don’t know if the world can fix the mockery it’s made of things. My faith tells me the future is going to be pretty grim, and the love of many is going to grow cold. But for me, I’ll keep my “private definition” of the truth. I’ll be polite to the urologist, I’ll buy my socks at Walmart, and I’ll go home to the fortress I built with the only person who knows my real firing order.
I guess I’ll just keep on truckin’.
A Taxonomy of Failure
The enamel cracked, a morbid, chalky white, Where sugar feasted in the fading light. The teeth started rotting, a slow, grim decline, A biological horror, stark and malign.
Then came the probe, the metallic, chilling sound, A cold assessment on corrupted ground. Humiliated by a Dentist, masked and stark, Who cataloged the damage, left its brutal mark. No gentle words, just clinical disdain, For the neglect that ushered in the pain. A graphic chart, a testament to rot, A silent judgment, in that sterile spot.
Beyond the mouth, a deeper void unfurled, Where ledgers vanished from a dying world. The lost tax records, spectral and unseen, A fiscal chaos, a bureaucratic scene. No paper trail to trace the phantom debt, Just looming penalties, a future to regret. The state’s cold gaze, a pressure to concede, To phantom figures, planted like a seed.
The weight descended, a crushing, silent dread, As systems faltered, and all order fled. The bureaucratic maze, a labyrinthine plight, Where obligations fester in the endless night. Suddenly I am overwhelmed, a system in despair, Lost in the circuits, breathing toxic air. The data streams, a torrent uncontrolled, A digital collapse, a story to unfold.
And so it retreats, into the digital gloom, Where broken algorithms seal its doom. It shuts the firewalls, disconnects the core, As vital functions cease to work anymore. And start hiding, in the network’s vast unknown, A ghost in the machine, utterly alone. Each failing server, a digital death knell, A final shutdown, a silent farewell.
This creeping shadow, consuming all it finds, A terminal process, leaving naught behind. This systemic failure, a darkness taking hold, It is the march to the end, a story to be told. A slow erosion, of structure and of might, Extinguished slowly, swallowed by the night. The rotting code, the records gone astray, The hidden system, fading day by day. A final cascade, into the digital deep, Where broken remnants silently will sleep.
Log Cabin Vignette
The keyboard, long dormant after that whole opus went rogue, is finally stirring again. Those illnesses really threw a wrench in things, didn’t they? Anyway, here’s a little vignette, a glimpse into the quiet solitude and wind-swept beauty of life along the Great Divide. Just a little something to see if I can still string words together after all this time. No promises on a full story, but I missed these coffee posts, and I missed you all.
The biting wind howled, rattling the thick, hand-hewn timbers of the forester’s cabin, a constant reminder of the wilderness beyond. Inside, a low, steady warmth radiated from the cast-iron stove in the main room, its soft orange glow flickering through the gaps in the stacked firewood. A narrow, rough-hewn staircase, bathed in the dim light, led to the loft bedroom.
Upstairs, the air was close and still. Moonlight, filtered through a small, paned window, cast long, dancing shadows across the rough plank floor. The scent of woodsmoke and pine needles hung in the air, mingling with the faint, milky smell of the sleeping baby. A heavy, patchwork quilt, thick with layers of wool and cotton, lay folded at the foot of a four-poster rope bed. The ropes, stretched taut, supported a mattress laden with batten and down blankets, promising respite from the mountain chill.
A woman sat in a sturdy rocking chair, its wide, flat armrests worn smooth with use. A quilted blanket, its colors faded and muted, was wrapped around her shoulders. Her long, black hair, hastily gathered with a simple bow, revealed roughly hacked bangs. The baby slept peacefully in her arms, its skin glowing softly in the candlelight. Her gaze was fixed on the child, her face shadowed, betraying the weariness of the long, cold night.
A small, blackened cast iron stove stood in the corner, radiating residual heat. Mica windows, set into its door, flickered with the dance of flames, throwing fractured light across the rough-hewn walls. A wax candle, held in a simple wooden wall sconce, added its own soft, yellow glow. On a small, sturdy table nearby, an unlit oil lamp stood ready, its wide base offering stability. A small rag rug lay on the floor near the rocker, a pair of simple slippers neatly centered upon it.
The husband stirred from what they called “the sleep between the sleeps,” a common rhythm in these harsh winters. The long nights were broken into segments of shallow rest, punctuated by moments of wakefulness – time to tend the fire, check on the children, and listen to the sounds of the night.
He moved with a quiet, practiced efficiency honed by years of living in the wilderness. The flickering glow of the stove’s mica windows illuminated his strong, lean frame as he knelt to stoke the embers, coaxing the flames back to life. He moved downstairs to replenish the parlor stove and set a pitcher of water to heat. Then, he checked on the other two children, sleeping soundly in a bed against an interior wall.
Returning to the loft, he moved with a deliberate, reassuring presence. He slipped back into the warm bed, the heavy blankets a welcome comfort against the biting cold. The rhythmic suckling of the baby and the soft, steady breathing of his wife filled the room, a gentle symphony of life against the backdrop of the howling wind. He settled in, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and waited for the first faint blush of dawn.
Rusty's Armory 