The Nod (short story)

I was rummaging around in the My Documents folder for something, and I came across a short story that I wrote back in 2004, titled The Nod. I read it and took some comfort in the fact that, even now, my feelings haven’t changed. For your enjoyment and (constructive) criticism, here is:

The Nod

Yosemite National Park is my absolute favorite place to take a vacation. Everything is on a different scale while you are in the valley, surrounded by huge granite walls and towering trees. The distant sounds of waterfalls seem to make everyone, including children, cognizant that this is a spiritual place.

I was sitting on the Yosemite Valley Shuttle when we pulled up at the Happy Isles stop and he got on board. He was a young guy, maybe 21. He was unwashed, unshaven, and his hair was long and unkempt. The duct tape on the knees of his pants was evidence of his poverty. On his back was a gigantic, red backpack that looked like it weighed more than he did. The massive backpack swayed as he stepped to a spot on the bus and took a handrail. No way could he sit down without taking the pack off.

Clearly, this guy was hardcore. He was a mountain climber – the battered carabineers hanging on his pack were evidence of that. Not like the clowns that pay $40,000 to have someone hold their hand to the top of Everest. This guy was real. He was living it.

As the bus started up again, he noticed I was looking at him, and he quickly averted his gaze. I may have had a disapproving look on my face, but I don’t know why that mattered. Maybe he felt inferior. My corporate haircut, or maybe my clean Columbia shirt and new North Face hiking boots with nary a scuff on them betrayed me as a tourist of the highest magnitude. I was a poser. I tried to hide my digital camera. I felt inferior to him.

I work an entire year, sitting in a cubicle in front of computers, looking forward to spending five days in Yosemite. This kid saw this place and made it his home. Home is a broad term to use, as I doubt that he has any actual place he slept regularly. But The Yosemite Valley was his home. Probably everything he owned was in that pack.

When he looked up at me again, I nodded approvingly. It was a nod of recognition that he could do something I could never do. Were I his age and without my obligations, yes, I could have been a vagabond mountain climber, but that opportunity is long past me now. I never seized it when I could. But this kid did. It was a nod of admiration.

He didn’t look away, and he smiled a little. Not a smirk, not a grin. He didn’t say anything and neither did I, and he got off at the next stop.

I think he understood that I was trying to communicate that I respected his life choice – the sacrifices he has made to stay in such an incredible place and embrace it so fully. Either that or he thought I was offering him a blow job. In which case, he was sorely disappointed that I didn’t follow him off the bus. But I chose to think he understood what I meant.

(c) 2004, Mitch Lavender

Spiking the Haribos

Written in 2011, it’s amusing to me to look back to that time and see how I thought I was really old, ten years ago. Man, do I feel old now.

About three weeks ago, I read this weird drink recipe that involved soaking gummy bears in alcohol. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find the original blog now, but it was on WordPress. Anyway, the gist was that if you allowed gummy bears to soak in alcohol, you wound up with… drumroll… wait for it… alcoholic gummy bears!

I have been a big fan of Haribo gummy bears since I was a kid. Even now, if I have a layover in Germany on a business trip, I always buy a big bag at the airport. And no, they don’t taste different in their country of origin. It’s just a thing I do.

So, loving Hairibo as I do and loving vodka as I do, well. It almost seemed a spiritual denial if I didn’t follow through on marrying these two loves. So, in short, I put a bag of gummy bears in a Tupperware container, covered the candies with Kettel One vodka, and put it in the refrigerator. And then I forgot about it until last weekend.

There was no vodka visible when I pulled them out, and the gummy bears had doubled in size. I took one moist and rubbery bear and popped it in my mouth. It was exactly like taking a Jell-O shot, except I am a lot older and not slurping it off some drunken chick in a bar. It was not bad as far as flavor or kick, but it was a complete fail for me in the flashback department.

It did give me an idea – what if you soaked Hairibo gummy-cola candy in bourbon? I just so happened to have both ingredients required for this and quickly poured Crown Royal over the cola bottle-shaped candies. Crown and Coke gummies! A week later, I tried one.

Photo by Pixabay on

You know, as much fun as it sounds – it was just slimy and gross. It was like I wasted great liquor on great candy. Back in my early 20’s, I had this same feeling. It was when I realized that cartoons weren’t entertaining anymore. It was the feeling of the world making me grow up. Be mature. I was changing my ideals.

So am I saying that no one should try this? Absolutely not. If you are above the legal drinking age and less old than I am (and largely, most people are), I suggest you give it a go. Just know that no matter how you fight it, you will grow up. To ultimately date myself, I now link you to The “Logical Song” by Supertramp.

I suggest you put off maturity as long as you can. Bottoms up… or gummies up, or whatever. I get so cranky if I don’t have my warm milk before bedtime.

© 2011, 2021 Mitch Lavender


As a card-carrying GEEK, it is my right… nay, it is my RESPONSIBILITY to complain about the most insignificant and trivial of details when it comes to movies, books, comics, video games, and particularly in my case, board games.

Look at the most passionate geeks out there and that’s what they do – criticize and complain and nit-pick.  I can only surmise that any geek worth his salt would do the same, right?

comicbookguy (1)

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I wrote this in September of 2013 and I was 49 years old, leaving an 18-year career with Microsoft and preparing to start work as a manager at AT&T. It’s an indulgent and heavy-handed write but I’m sharing it here for those who might find themselves in a similar career change and need some reassurance and more to the point, might try to do it alone.

By Mitch Lavender


I knew the way and the path was familiar even though this was a new pilgrimage.

Corporations are treacherous catacombs, filled with dead-ends and devastating fates for the unwary.  Eighteen years, I have navigated these passages but too late, I realized I took a wrong turn.  All around me, peers and superiors told me otherwise and that the path was true, but I knew otherwise.  I knew, but it was too late.

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Don’t Kill the Dog (for authors)

There are places that authors fear to tread and rightly so.  Some things are taboo and off limits, even in the fictionalized place where we create our stories and taking a certain plot twist can completely lose a reader or worse, make them angry.

I have a tendency to write dark fiction and that is thin ice to tread.  It’s not hard to make a wrong move.  It takes scruples and sense of self to avoid it because when weaving a story (i.e., pantsing), it has a life of its own; taking a direction that almost seems to be beyond the author’s control.  The story is completely in the author’s control of course, but it can sometimes feel like it has its own personae and is making choices for itself, such as having your antihero become a predator on the weak, vulnerable or trusting.  Who would like Batman if he was a rapist or child molester?   Rapists and Child molesters, that’s who, and no one else.

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Essay: Time to Stop

Lynn handed me the fortune from her fortune cookie.

“This is for you.”

I took the tiny slip of paper and read aloud, “Don’t be afraid to take that big step.”


“What do you think that means?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but my lucky numbers are 2, 5, 8, 11, 15 and 54.”

She laughed and let me off the hook. I know that she knows she let me off the hook.

I’ve been teetering on the edge for years, trying to balance my career in IT that paid my bills and supported my family with my alter-ego’s career of being a writer, which took me away from my family. I’ll add that being a writer requires doing shameless self-promotion that I detest doing. It is akin to standing in the middle of a busy supermarket, pulling my pants down and yelling, “Look what I can do!” as I hop around like an epileptic donkey.  If self-promotion was an Apple product, it would be called iHateit.

Once, I tried to leave my body while doing self-promotion. No, really. I actually tried to astral project to anywhere but the place where I was pandering my book to some politely disinterested group. It’s no better selling to the black hole of the internet where no one can hear you scream. For the record, it didn’t work – the astral projection or apparently, the self-promotion.

Lynn knew how I hated it though we never talked about it. I knew she knew, and she knew I knew she knew.

Later that night as we lay in bed together and before we curled up and went to sleep, I decided to answer her question.

“What would be a big step?”

I turned and looked at her.

“I want to stop trying to be a writer.”

I had never used those words together in a sentence before. Just saying it felt fresh and new. Was this what is like when a woman douches? I don’t know, but saying it felt good. I could leave the unclean, messy part about self-promoting behind and just write because I like to write, and if no one reads it, meh. It’d be great if someone did, but it’s not key. I no longer fail if they don’t.

I can be THAT guy – the guy who just writes for fun. For FUN!


I was so excited, I leapt from bed and standing there in my underwear, I said more words I have never uttered before: I don’t have to write. I don’t have to blog. I don’t have to self-promote!

I was heady from the sacrilege and heresy of my own words. I had just broken my own taboo rules and it made me giddy.

Don’t get me wrong on this, I love writing. Still, in my attempt to improve and produce and be recognized, I have held my own feet to a very hot fire. It was not uncommon for me to sit down at the keyboard and not allow myself to go to bed until I wrote 500 words. Sometimes it was 1000 words. Sometimes it was to edit 20 pages, or submit work to a reviewer. These were arbitrary and unhealthy practices but I did it to myself to force growth, and I did them after working my real job all day long.

In the process of doing this relentlessly, year after year, I broke something. It was like a spring that had been wound too tight and snapped. I don’t think it is something that will fix itself.

One of my favorite quotes is from the author of Fahrenheit 451 and Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury. He said, “You only fail if you stop writing.”


It’s a good quote. Really, it distills all the fluff and pretense and puts it in perspective: Keep writing.

I will keep writing and by that measure, I have not failed. I simply have stopped being hardcore and mad about it, and I have stopped because it isn’t getting me anywhere. It might get me to an early grave if I kept at it, dead from a heart attack. I’m ok with giving that a miss for a few more decades.

Until that day, I’ll continue to write, casually.


Ed. This is a fictionalized account and may or may not be true, hallucinated or completely fabricated out of thin air. Perhaps it was a fanciful thought of yours. You know how you daydream. We all know how you daydream.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Seventeen


Episode Seventeen


I was always awkward but had learned to adapt, and by the time I was graduating high school, I was in the top of my class.

“The future rests on our strong and capable shoulders. It will be our generation that will herald in the new age. It will be our generation that will face and resolve the problems of our time.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes.

My speech is so much better. I had written and submitted a speech for this year’s graduation but Mr. Duncan, the principal thought it was “not in keeping with tradition.” I clutched a folded-up copy of the speech and sat quietly.

The audience was made up of the graduating class; a hundred or so students all in maroon caps and gowns, and their friends and their family, of course. My mother is present. Finally, the speech drew to a close.

“Congratulations to you, the class of 2001! The future is what we make of it!”

All of my classmates jumped to their feet. I looked at the response of those around and slowly got to my feet, too.

They all scream, “Hooray!” I just didn’t feel it. Along with the rest of the class, I took off my cap and threw it in the air. It was a unfulfilling event for me, but everyone around me seemed truly excited and caught up in the moment. Proud mothers were dabbing away their tears of joy with white handkerchiefs, proud fathers heartily shaking the hands of their newly emancipated sons. I finally just quit trying to fake it, and as my classmates were doing high-fives, I stepped away from the crowd, wanting to distance myself from them.

It startled me a little when there was a touch on the shoulder. It was my mother.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said with a sweet and reassuring smile. “Your father would have been, too.”

I smiled back, still clutching my speech.

We walked arm in arm toward the car and my mother was beaming with pride. I wasn’t sure what I had done to elicit such a swelling sense of satisfaction in her. There was nothing unique about my academic accomplishments. I had simply shown up, listened, and on test day, I regurgitated what I had heard. Nonetheless, I was glad to see her so happy. As we walked past a trash can at the edge of the parking lot, I tossed my speech into it.

“I know you’re going out with your friends to celebrate, but drive me home first. You can take the car.”

She tossed me the keys. More and more, I noticed that my Mother didn’t want to drive. That’s fine and I didn’t mind, but it was clear she wasn’t comfortable behind the wheel anymore. It was a long drive, almost an hour, and I wasn’t talkative.

“Something the matter, Bobby?” She asked. It had been over ten minutes where neither of us had said anything.

“Just thinking about what’s next.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” My mother’s face still showed distinct pride. “I’ve spoken to Philip Crenshaw, Jonah’s father. He’s agreed to give you an internship in the research department at Trust Media Group. The pay is not much to start, but Trust Media Group is a very big place, with subsidiary companies in lots of other things besides magazines and television. It will get you started. It’s the kind of company you can stick with your entire life, retire from. And they’ve got good benefits.”

They used to call this a grind. Now, it’s obligation. Now, it’s opportunity. Now, it’s life.

“Really,” I said without enthusiasm.

Trust Media Group was a huge media conglomerate, but I knew that Phillip Crenshaw worked for one of its smaller divisions, The Trusted Authority, a weekly tabloid newspaper that is on every supermarket checkout stand. The cover story was often something to do with aliens, subterranean humanoids living in the sewers who snatch babies or maybe just a slice of life from Paris Hilton’s routine. You know, stuff that is hard to believe. It was journalism at its most yellow .

My mother continued, “You’re father had always wanted you to have a good job… a white-collar job. He wanted you to achieve more than he did.”

She wasn’t the sort to come out and say it, but I also knew that she was having a tough time making ends meet. My father’s lingering death and prolonged hospital treatment had left her with more bills than the small insurance policy could cover. If I was earning, I would be able to help her.

Still, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of working for Jonah Crenshaw’s father or TMG. Besides that, I disliked the idea of being an office boy. But this job didn’t have to last forever, maybe just a year or so. That would be enough to help pay off the debts my mother had, but there were other ways to make a living.

“Sounds great. Not,” I said, eyes fixed straight ahead on the road.

In the driveway, I helped my mother from the car and walked her inside and followed her into the kitchen as she put a kettle on for some tea. I stood silently in the kitchen doorway watching her fill the kettle and then place it on the hot stove.

“Mom, I can’t do this, this new job.”

“Trust Media? Of course you can. They have a training program. Orientation, Mr. Crenshaw called it.”

“Not what I mean, Mom. I don’t know what I want to do yet, but this isn’t it. I’ll find something else to do. I would really like to write.”

“Well, you can still write. It’s good to have a hobby.”

I felt annoyed, angry and frustrated, all at once.

“I will not work at TMG!” Tears welled in my eyes.

“You’re a dreamer, just like your father. Look where that got him!” She was upset and her head shook when she spoke. She raised her hands up as if calling on help from above. “You can’t make a living from dreaming. You’ve got to get a real job. It’s time to stop being a child and start being an adult.”

“I’ll pay my way. I’ll find something to get me by, but I’ve got to have time to figure things out. I’m not going to work for TMG, and that’s final. Not you or anyone is going to make me work for TMG! You hear me? No one!”

I braced myself for the anticipated, harsh words I was certain would come but when my mother opened her mouth, nothing came out. She just stood there, statuesque and poised, and then she gasped.

It was a ragged drag on the air, and I noticed the look on her face, now. It wasn’t anger and resentment. It was fear. She stumbled back on the stove, and her outstretched hand clutched her chest.

I moved to catch her and she screamed, shrill and high pitched. Only it wasn’t a scream. It was only the sound of the kettle whistling.


My mother had a stroke. She’d been working too hard since my father died, doing various housecleaning jobs as she could get them. She was also getting older and couldn’t keep up the pace. She recovered, but not fully, and now needed full-time medical care. I went to work at TMG to support her. Years later, I am still at TMG and still supporting her.

I left the cemetery and drove back to the office. I had a full inbox but I didn’t get any work done. I had my performance forms to complete, calls to make, a meeting to go to. I did none of them.



Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Sixteen


Episode Sixteen


I withdrew after my father died.  I was never outgoing but now, I was more introverted than ever. I had a lot of trouble making friends and interacting with others.

I remember Ms. Hall’s 3rd grade class – I would sit at my assigned desk, just like the other children sitting at other desks in the room. We were supposed to draw what we want to be when we grow up; it was supposed to be a fun assignment. I had a manila piece of paper in front of me.

The kids at the desks around me were busy coloring with crayons. Some were drawing guys building houses, driving cars or piloting airplanes. One was drawing a rocket ship. The page in front of me is blank except that I had put my name at the top left corner. ‘Bobby’ in purple crayon, and written at a slight angle.

Ms. Hall, a 40-something school teacher, strolled around, observing the students and nodding with approval at their projects. She came by my desk and stopped, assessing the blank paper in front of me. I didn’t look up, but I felt her presence. After a moment, she sighed and moved on.

They used to call this Art Class. Now, it’s Defamation. Now, it’s Biased Judgment. Now, it’s life.

The other children were engrossed in their creations, so I turned my attention back to the blank paper in front of me. Picking up a green crayon, I put it back down and then got a red one. I started marking on the page.

When art class was almost over, the teacher came back around to me, smiling. Like the other kids, I had finally drawn something. As she approached, her smile faded and her brow creased a bit. The page was covered with words. In fact, the paper was full of words, telling a story about a man in jail. She looked over my shoulder and picked it up. She flipped the page over and noticed that the words continued on the back. She turns the page back over, and scrawled at the top of the paper in red crayon it reads, “Trapped.”

“Bobby,” she said in a deliberate and kind tone, “why don’t you go outside and play with the other children.”

“But I’m not done with my story.”

“That’s ok. You were supposed to draw a picture. We’ll write stories another time,” she urged, looking at the paper with concern.

I got up and left the room, but not before I saw her take my paper and put it in the top drawer of her desk.



Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Fifteen


Episode Fifteen


It took a while to find my father’s grave. It had been a while since I had visited. Odd, the things you choose to remember about people when they are gone.

A frail and withered man lay sleeping in an oxygen tent. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and the medical apparatus in the room had tubes and wires that connected them to the man in the bubble. The machines beeped and clicked.

I was seven years old; looking through the clear, rectangular material at what my father was reduced to being. Were it not for the medication, oxygen tent and the other machines, my father would have died months ago. The tumor had been growing out of control for a while, but this last month had been the worst. The doctors weren’t sure how much longer he would hang on. I looked  at him as he breathed uncomfortably and a tear rolled down my cheek, unhindered.

They used to call it a deathwatch. Now, it’s visiting hours. Now, it’s quality time with Dad. Now, it’s life.

My father looked different, distorted by the plastic sheet of the oxygen tent, so I cautiously bent down and stepped inside the tent, careful not to disturb any of the hoses or wires, practically tiptoeing around them to get a better look, and as I did, my father’s eyes fluttered open to a semi-conscious state.

He pulled a deep breath and strained to say, “Hey there. I got you something, Chief.”

It was a muffled whisper that I barely understood. His hand rose slightly from the bed and he was holding a Rubik’s Cube.

He knew how confining a hospital must be for a kid my age. He had asked a nurse to fetch something from the gift shop to keep me busy and keep my mind on something else other than his condition.

I took the toy, smiled and said, “Thanks Dad.”

He had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

I went back and sat in the chair, the only chair in the room, and focused on the Rubik’s Cube, slowly and deliberately turning the rows of colored cubes. I knew the goal was to get all the same colored cubes on each side, but the distraction of the toy was comforting, and I was really just going through the motions of turning and turning and turning without thinking about it.


The sharp, sustained noise startled me, and I realized the EKG machine connected to my father is showing a flat line. Another machine started a lower-pitch Beep! Beep! Beep! and about twenty seconds pass with the noisy alarms filling the room before anyone came in to the room. I sat there, watching.

Finally, a nurse came in and hurried to the oxygen tent. She checked the tubes and wires. A doctor and another nurse join her, the doctor opening the tent and putting his stethoscope on the man’s chest. They go through the process of trying to revive my father. Preoccupied with their tasks, none of them noticed me, sitting quietly in the chair, watching. Still clutching the Rubik’s Cube, my knuckles were white.



Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Fourteen


Episode Fourteen


I drove around for a while. I didn’t see any point in going back to the office, and I wound up at Rose Hill Cemetery. It just seemed like the right place to be.

On the hill was a gathering of about twenty people. Dressed in black and seated on wooden folding chairs, they stood out in stark contrast to the green grass, perfect rows of granite markers and blue sky. A few cars and a limousine were parked on the nearby street.

It was a burial of course – a graveside memorial. I cocked my head to one side as I watched. The casket was a pewter-colored box on a pedestal or something.

I parked and got out of the car, moving closer – discreet but attentive to the memorial. Someone is saying some kind words about… Whoever. The casket is open and I can see the body inside is that of a middle-aged man. Even from this distance, it’s easy to see that they went too heavy on the rouge, his cheeks almost red on his otherwise pale face.

I realized that I was intruding on a sacred and personal event, and the friends and relatives probably would not appreciate my staring, but no one seemed to notice me, as usual.

When the ceremony ended, they lowered the casket into the ground. I watched as everyone rose from their chairs and filed back toward their cars, in pairs or sometimes alone. One woman stepped to the edge of the grave and tossed in a flower – a rose I think. After a moment, she turned and walked back towards the parked vehicles.

Once everyone had made their way from the grave site, I slowly approached,  stepping to the edge and peering into the hole. At the bottom lay the pewter box with a single white rose resting on its lid.  It looked so serene.

Sitting down on one of the folding chairs, my jacket rode up on one side and something poked me in the ribs. Reaching around, I pulled out the package I had picked up at the post office, still wrapped.

I tore the paper off to reveal a rather plain black book with an elastic band stretched around it. Embossed in gold on the cover it had one word:


I removed the band and opened it. The cover creaked a little with stiffness as I turned to the first page and read it.

“This is the Journal of Jonathan Bocks.”

This was my father’s. I never knew he kept a journal. I flipped a few pages and read the heading:

“Went out for the swim team. Failed.”

Apparently, my father had started keeping this journal on or shortly after his sixteenth birthday. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I was excited about something. I could hardly wait to read the book, not only that it was my father’s journal, but a long time ago, my father, or someone, had arranged to have it sent to me now.

I leafed ahead sixty pages or so and stopped on a page that read, “Today I became a Father.”

“Red and wrinkled, the newborn baby wriggled in the hospital crib under the harsh fluorescent lighting in the ward. Everything is white except his little blue stocking cap. The label on the crib reads, ‘Robert Bokes’ written in black marker. That is my son.

Next to him and all around him are identical cribs with nearly identical little red and wrinkled babies wearing blue or pink stocking caps. The babies all seem so isolated in each little crib, compartmentalized.’

I stopped reading and looked at the grave in front of me. It was hard to see any difference between the beginning and the end.

“Excuse me.”

The voice startled me and I stood up from my seat to see a dark haired woman in her twenties.  I recognized her from the funeral – she dropped the rose in the grave. I was caught off guard and didn’t know what to say. I just stared at her.

“I forgot my umbrella.” She said, pointing down next to the chair I had been sitting in.

I was paralyzed, partly with fear from having been discovered next to a stranger’s open grave and partly because I was always awkward around women, especially women this pretty. Except for Tanner, – she was the one exception, the one woman that I didn’t feel the need to try to be something other than myself.

When I didn’t move, the woman reached down and retrieved the umbrella resting near my feet. “Did you know my father well?” the women asked.

“No, not well.” I replied.

The woman nodded her head.

“Neither did I.”

This seemed a very personal thing to tell a stranger and now I was really unsure of what to do.

“It was a nice ceremony though – very… pretty.” This was all I could think of.

“Yes it was.” The woman looked around the cemetery. “I’ve always liked the fall. The changing colors, it’s so beautiful.”

She picked up a bright red leaf sitting on the chair next to her. She held it by its stem and twirled the leaf by rolling the stem between her finger and thumb. “I wish the leaves always looked like this.”

I was trying to think of something appropriate to say and blurted out the first nearly relevant thing that came to my mind. “They do!”

The women gave me a puzzled look.

“The leaves – they’re always that color. Each leaf is red or yellow or orange, but you just can’t see the color through all the green chlorophyll. When the cold weather starts, the tree prepares for winter by drawing the chlorophyll back in to the trunk, and that exposes the color that was always there.”

The women smiled at me. This time, her smile was not sad.

“Then the leaf… dies, and falls off,” I added, realizing that I should have stopped while I was ahead.

“Well, it’s too bad we don’t get to see its true colors until its life is over.” Her sadness seemed to return, but then she added, “But I’m glad it makes that last effort. It’d be a shame if it died without at least giving us a glimpse.”

After an awkward pause, the woman gestured toward the other guests milling next to their cars and said, “Well, I better get back. Are you going?”

I was enjoying talking to this woman, uncomfortable though it was. I almost forgot that I was in a cemetery. I had forgotten what Dr. Maddox had said. The reality though, was that I had more in common with the residents of the cemetery than with those who attended the service.

“No, there’s someone else here I need to visit.”

“Well it was nice meeting you. And it was very informative,” said the woman, flashing a charming smile.

In a different place, with different circumstances, and if I were a different man, I might have asked her to coffee or dinner.  instead, I smiled and nodded slightly.  She extended the leaf she was holding to me, and I took it.

I looked at the leaf in my hand and then up at her as she walked down the hill toward the waiting group. I absently slid the leaf between the pages of the journal and walked away in the opposite direction.




Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Thirteen


Episode Thirteen


At 3:15, I am finally called from the waiting room to see the doctor. I sat in the chair opposite his desk, putting my hands in my lap to avoid fidgeting.

Dr. Maddox flipped through a file folder. On the top was the paperwork I had filled out.

Dr. Maddox removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a monogrammed handkerchief. He held his glasses up to the light.

“I just can’t keep these things clean!” He complained, wiping the lenses again.

He wasn’t really speaking to me, but I was the only other person in the office. I looked around. A degree from the University of… wherever, hung on the wall, along with other awards and accolades. Pictures of his kids were on the ornate wooden bookshelves, along with a picture of his Porsche and a picture from a deep sea fishing trip. And there were books; lots of books and medical journals.

“So anyway,” Dr. Maddox returned his glasses to his face and continued, “I’m sorry to inform you that I agree 100% with the findings of the four previous neurosurgeons. There’s no way to know exactly how much longer you have. There have been some attempts to remove the malignancy in similar cases, but none have had successful results.”

“I don’t understand.” I looked away from the doctor and down at his hands. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I feel fine, just headaches. I spend a lot of time in front of a computer. Causes eye strain… headaches. You’re saying there’s more to this than that?” This has been my routine comment when doctors hit me with the bad news.

“Yes, quite a bit more.”

Dr. Maddox resented this part of the job; having to speak in terms that his patients could understand. He would have to go into what he liked to call talk-down mode. Telling me I was dying was easy. Telling me in layman’s terms was annoying. On top of that, I was expecting him to do something to stave off inevitable death; to cure my illness and save me. This is déjà vu for me.

Dr. Maddox said, “Your brain will be systematically shutting down as the tumor spreads. Considering the location of the tumor, and considering your otherwise good health, you’ll probably be fully functional right up until you are very close to your death.”

I gaped at the doctor. He was going through his routine. I was going through mine.

“Is there nothing you can do? My Father died of a tumor almost 20 years ago. There’s been research… new treatments… there must be something you can do now.”

Dr. Maddox sighed heavily. “A tumor is an unnecessary growth of normal or abnormal cells. Some tumors are treatable and some are not. Tumors are graded on a scale. One, for benign and treatable tumors, to four, for rapidly growing and malignant tumors. The tumor you are afflicted with is a grade four tumor.”

Dr. Maddox took out a prescription pad and scribbled something on it.

“I’m going to give you this for the headaches. As they get worse, you can take this for the pain. I allowed for one refill, in case you need it.”

He tore off the top sheet of the pad and handed it to me. I just stared back at the doctor, blankly, hoping for something. For some sign of hope, some chance that this could all just be a terrible mistake. Like I said, I’ve been through this before and I had my routine.

“You understand Mr. Bokes, there really is no way to tell in these cases. It could be a week, it could be a year. It’s not treatable and it is always terminal.”



Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Twelve


Episode Twelve


As I sat down in the seat of my car, I heard a crumpling sound. I reached under my butt and pulled out a slip of paper.

I had forgotten about this – it’s reminding me to pick up a package at the post office. It required a signature. No idea what this is – I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon or another online retailer lately, but I think I can take care of this and make it to the doctor on time.

The line at the post office moved along slowly. This was taking longer than I expected, and I nervously checked my watch. I didn’t want to be late for my appointment with Dr. Maddox; he might make me reschedule.

Finally I was next in line. After milling around for a few minutes, the man behind the counter at the post office motioned for me to come forward. The patch sewn to his shirt read ‘Ed’.

“This slip was left in my door. It says I have a package waiting.”

I held out the yellow slip of paper and Ed took it, raising it to within inches of his glasses.  He looked it over for at least a minute before moving slowly to a back room and out of sight. He eventually emerged with a small package. He pushed a form across the counter to me.

I looked it over. “So… where do I sign?”

Ed pointed in the direction of the bottom of the page and said, “There, in the box.”

“Right!” I agreed, signing it quickly and handing it back to Ed.

“That’s it,” Ed said, handing me the package and then returning his attention to his portion of the paperwork.

It was a small package wrapped in heavy brown paper. The wrapping was fastened with tape that had turned yellow with age. I took it and looked at the label. Odd. It was apparently mailed almost sixteen years ago, but had instructions that said it was not to be delivered until this month.

“Delivered at 1:52pm,” said Ed recording the time and date on the form.

I looked up from the package. “What did you say?”

“The time. 1:52pm,” said Ed pointing to the form.

I looked at my watch nervously. I was going to be late. I shoved the package in my jacket pocket and hurried out to my car.

I made it to the doctor’s office at 2:05. Not too late. The woman at the front desk slid a square clipboard under the Plexiglas window and I took it.

“Fill out all three pages and sign in the box.”

I looked over the paper work.

“Excuse me, but I filled this out last time I was here.”

“You have to fill out a new one every time so that we’re current.”

She said this without looking away from her computer.

“Look, it was just last week. I had some tests done. I’m just here to get the results.”

“You have to fill a new one out every time.” She spoke more slowly and deliberately now. She glanced at me as if maybe I had a learning disorder and hadn’t understood her the first time. “So that we’re current,” She added.

When I started to say something else, she added, “No exceptions.”

My headache was throbbing and I surrendered. I sat down in the waiting room and filled out the forms. Again.




Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Eleven


Episode Eleven

Later that day, we were trapped in the usual meeting with management to remind us of how insignificant we are. Even the recognition given for accomplishments seemed to underline the fact that we were not important.

Snavely was going through a hand-full of recognition awards for vague things like “cross-teaming” and “customer focus.” Then he announced that the “Research employee of the month” is Tanner Orb.

I tried not to look shocked or disappointed, but how did this happen? Tanner cleared the most articles in the shortest time with the most direct quotes. The award is the employee of the month parking spot. My parking spot.

“Bobby, it looks like your prodigy has usurped your throne,” Snavely said with a smile.

I wanted to punch him in the face. I wanted to punch myself. This award was so stupid, why did it matter to me?

I smiled and shrugged.

“What can I say?”

After the meeting was over, I left the room and headed back to my cube without talking to anyone. I had a terrible headache so I opened the aspirin bottle I keep at my desk, but there was only one pill left. I took the pill and opened a new bottle of 600; I’d been buying aspirin in the big, economy bottles. While I was fumbling with the safety seal on the bottle, Tanner showed up.

“Tough break on the Employee of the month thing, but your streak had to end sometime, Bobby.”

“Right. Don’t worry about it. You earned it but just take good care of my parking spot. I’ll be parking there again next month.” Then I remembered something. “I finished that book you loaned me.” I pulled the book out of my briefcase and gave it to Tanner. “I couldn’t put it down. The author had a real talent for weaving a story that was intricate, yet easy to follow. I felt like I was right there with him, climbing Everest. You were right, it was… inspiring.”

“I know! I loved that book. It’s almost like some incurable disease these guys get – trying to climb Everest. Interesting stuff.”

I noticed that Tanner was carrying another book.

“What’s that?”

Tanner held up the book: The Cream Rises. It was some corporate business book written by an ex-CEO about power lunches or something. “Gotta go! Duty calls.”

As Tanner walked away, I mused over how she had changed; how she had adapted to the Research Analyst role. My thoughts were interrupted by an irritating beep from my computer. It was a reminder from my calendar that I had a doctor’s appointment.




Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Ten


Episode TenLife64-web-novel-banner24_thumb_thum_thumb

Chapter 6


I listened to the alarm and sat up in bed. The clock read 6:30. I smacked the off button  and the shrill sound stopped. Yawning, I started for the bathroom to begin my morning routine.

In the kitchen, I dropped the bread into the toaster and pressed the lever down. On the counter next to the stove sat a small clay pot with several cooking utensils sticking out of it. I absently reached over and pulled out a large wooden fork and placed it next to the toaster.

I looked out the window. Weeds had overtaken my small back yard. Let them, I thought.

The toaster made its loud “chunk!” noise, but as usual, no toast popped up. I picked up the wooden fork and dug around inside the toaster, fishing out two pieces of toast and then sat at the table.

I am going to die, soon. I should do something.

The thought wandered across my mind as it often does. And as it had done each time before, it was pushed out as I began thinking about my workday.

Later that morning, on my way through the office, I stopped by Tanner’s cube to say hi. She had her headset on. Leaning back in her chair, she repeatedly squeezed a spongy stress ball with the TMG logo on it as she spoke to… whoever.

“But you do speak to military personnel regularly, correct?”

This was a common ploy used to manipulate the individual into saying something we could use. Tanner’s eyebrows raised in anticipation of an agreeing statement.

“I see. And what do you talk about with the lieutenant, then?”

Tanner listened for a second then sat forward like a fisherman with a nibble on the line, preparing to set the hook and reel in the fish.

“Uh huh, confidential, I see.”

Tanner scribbled something on the notepad in front of her.

“So, what you’re saying is that in all your conversations with the military they never mentioned the existence of any time machine, right?”

Tanner paused and listened, but you could tell that she had already decided what to say next.

“So it’s safe to say that you can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a time machine being tested by the US military?”

There it was – It was a question but the way Tanner said it, it sounded like a statement.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Tanner spat out the entire sentence almost as one word. She quickly punched the orange release button on the phone, disconnecting the other person.

“Hey, Bobby! Hold on a second and let me get this down.”

Tanner typed the sentence:

Confidential sources in frequent contact with the military say they cannot deny the existence of the time machine.

Tanner closed the file folder on her desk and placed it in the Outbox. The Inbox was a short stack of folders.

“Good morning, Master Baiter,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to your tasks.”

“Sorry so busy. I’ll catch you at lunch, OK?”

I waved and moved on as she pulled another folder from the stack and dialed another number.

“Yes, Mrs. Wheeler?” Tanner scanned the file.

“Hi, I’m calling about the unusual lights you saw in a farm field about 3 weeks ago…”

Tanner picked up the stress ball and started squeezing it rapidly again.

“OK, but even if that did turn out to be the source, wouldn’t you say that it was ‘unusual’ for a farmer to be driving a tractor at night?”

I rounded the corner and went to my cube.




Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet (Web-Novel) Episode Nine


Episode Nine

Chapter 5



I listened to the alarm as I sat up in bed. The alarm clock read 6:30. I smacked the off button on the top of the clock and the shrill sound stopped. With a weary sigh, I started for the bathroom and began my morning routine.

In the kitchen, I dropped the bread into the toaster and pressed the lever down. Waiting for the toast, I looked out the window and noticed the grass had gotten tall. Great. I would have to mow it soon. Summer yard work seemed to be a continuous and pointless cycle. You watered the lawn so it would grow but then you would cut the lawn because it had grown. Then you would water it again.

The toaster made its loud “chunk!” noise. I continued to look out the window, flipped the toaster upside-down, and shook it over the plate until the bread fell out. I put the toaster down unceremoniously and took my plate of toast and burnt crumbs to the table, sat down and opened the paper. This is just another day I would let slip by on my prematurely shortened, agenda-less life.

Later that morning, as I walked to my cube, I passed Tanner’s cube and snagged one of the Velcro darts from her desk. Without stopping, I threw it at the felt globe-dartboard. After I got a few cubes down the aisle, Tanner yelled out, “Afghanistan.”

That’s where the dart landed. I shouted back, “Destitute homeland of terrorists. Got it!”

Once I got to my cube and logged in, I did a search engine look-up on the Internet for Afghanistan, but my phone rang before I could click any of the links that Bing brought up. The LCD display on the phone showed it was Tanorb.

“I’m looking already!” I said, answering the phone.

Your objective, should you chose accept it, is to find a story from Afghanistan.” After a pause, she added, “A dirty limerick doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, I already used that for Sweden, anyway. I think finding a dirty limerick from Afghanistan might be a tad hard to come by. But it’s not hard to find a news story from there, these days.”

Tanner was quiet for a few seconds too long, and then I heard her say to someone else, “Yes sir.” Then back to me, she said, “I’ve got to go. Mr. Snavely wants to see me.” Click.

I found out later that Snavely chewed her out for being too conscientious about researching the stories. Snavely views this as a volume business. At first, I had doubted that Tanner would cut it here. She just didn’t seem to be able to unplug her logic and integrity while on the job, and it tripped her up over and over. Now, two months later, she is still making the same mistakes.




Life in Sixty-Four Square Feet

©Copyright 2015, Mitch Lavender

Rubik’s Cube® used by permission of Rubiks Brand Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.