We are in the home stretch. Just a week remains of Flash August Fiction. Wow. So close. Thanks for the shares and the cares and the likes and the lifts. It’s an odd little podcast, but it will catch on.

“Can you think of another item you would want to find, if you found a time capsule? What would be a cool thing to find in the future? Go ahead and call some out.” The Teacher, Mrs. Nyce asked the kids. They started shouting out their ideas.

“A Cabbage Patch Doll!”

“A Trapper Keeper full of homework, and drawings and school supplies!”

“A calculator!”

“Principal Dickman!” One student yells, and all the kids laugh.

“Do you really think the kids of the future would like to see a calculator? Why would they like that?” Asks Mrs. Nyce.

“So they can see the kind of technology we have. I bet the calculators in the future are going to be very small. Everything is going to be smaller. Telephones will be tiny.” The student says.

“That’s very interesting.” The teacher responds.

“I know what they have in the future.” Says Johnny Harris. “Me and my dad found something from the future in the woods. It’s like a knapsack, and there was a bunch of stuff in it.”

“Are you sure? That sounds silly, Johnny.” Mrs. Nyce said.

“There’s a little thing, it’s like a rectangle screen. We could figure out from the pictures and words that it was a telephone, but there were no wires, and it needed a password to get in. Then it turned off, it had a battery we could plug it into, but that ran out.”

“And another big rectangle too, but it was something for doing more things than talking. It folded. We could never get that to work, but we could see that it had a lot of stuff by the pictures on the screen. It ran out of power, too.”

“Then there was a metal water bottle, some really cool sunglasses, and some super weird looking clothes that were so smooth, and just some socks and all that.”

Mrs. Nyce responds. “That sounds interesting, but how did you know it was from the future?

“We found a slip in there from a gas station at an address where there is nothing there, but it had the date on it. It was from 2025.” Johnny said.

“I don’t believe you.” Says the other kid, and some other kids laugh, and some of them shake their heads at Johnny in disapproval.

Mrs. Nyce says. “It’s fun to tell stories, Johnny, we know, but we know that story is just having some fun, right?”

“It’s OK.” Johnny says. “My dad told me not so say anything, but he also said no one would believe me anyway. So I figure, what’s the difference.”

The class and the teacher, continued preparing their time capsule, and in just a little while, there was someone outside the room asking for the Teacher. Mrs. Nyce went out to see them.

A couple of kids can see the hallway from their seats, and they describe two men in dark suits, and weird glasses.

Mrs. Nyce pops back in the door.

“Ah, Johnny, Johnny Harris. Can you come here please?”

The End505 Words

What about when time capsules go in reverse? What about that?

It took me a long time to get this up today. Your television is an appliance. You might be seeing it the next day. I hope you’ll check out today’s story if this is yesterday’s story for you. Then it’s almost like a twofer. Not really, though, just one per day.

Preston is assigned to paint a location overnight. It might be two nights, but probably one. He has a cool gig with a company that scales as a national painting company. He hits the road all over the place and paints salons, phone stores, and all kinds of franchise offices. Tonight he's at a News Station. His company had landed a deal for the real estate of a major media operation.

He’s in a utility area, loading in his tools, he knows where he’s going to be working. It’s the off camera walls of the studio. He’ll just determine whether he’ll brush and roll, or spray, and then probably get this thing knocked out in a few hours.

As he walks down the hallways to get to the studio, Preston is impressed with the portraits of the newsreaders, some of them legends, displayed along the walls. There’s Julie Fallfort, Joey Rider, and legendary Sports Reporter, Dick Toupee. Preston can’t believe this humble job has brought him here.

“I almost feel like somebody.” Preston hears himself say, as he stands in the middle of the hallway. Now however, he has to make his way to the studio, to get the work done.

Preston surmises just about what he expected. An essentially straightforward brush and roll with some detail work around some rafters and plumbing.

“Wow, there's wear it all happens.”

He says as he sees the camera placements and the stage, off work hours. He thinks something looks weird. There’s no one sitting at the desk, but he sees legs beneath the desk. He, somewhat spooked, carefully walks closer, bent forward, squinting. He sees legs, they are wrong. They’re the legs of a clown, but there’s no one sitting at the desk.

Calling his supervisor this late at night is not an ideal thing, but he knows they assume it must be important if they get a call this late. That’s what Preston does.

“What’s the deal, Preston, you’re not having an anxiety attack over nothing again, are you?” The voice on the phone says.

“I don’t think so, this is really weird. I hate being here right now. There’s clownpants bro. It’s just sitting at the desk. It’s clownpants under the desk, and nothing from the waist up. It’s just invisible, homestead.”

“I don’t understand, what the heck are you saying?” The supervisor says.

“I’m saying it’s creepy, bro. It’s like there’s someone there, but they’re not. It’s just clownpants bro. Like I said, it’s clownpants under the desk and nothing from the waist up.”

The voice on the phone remains confused, but impatient. “Can you just send me a picture?”

Preston points his phone at the desk pants, he gets a shot and fires it up the chain. “You got that big guy?” He asks the phone.

“Oh my goodness, you need to get out of there.” His super says. “Look, just go straight back out, you can take your stuff or leave it for now. Let me call and we’ll check in tomorrow.”

They hang up, and Preston goes back to the utility area and gets all his things. He’d really rather not come back. He’ll wait to hear from corporate before doing anything.

The next morning, Preston is just waking up in a modest Hotel room when gets a call from his super.

“Hey man, I just talked to the people over there, and I told them what was happening. I sent the picture, and they told me they didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Do you think you can just scootch back over there tonight and get that all buttoned up?”

“I suppose I can.” Preston says. “Considering, everyone understands the situation.”

The End618 Words

It’s hard to tell, sometimes, who is who and what is what around here. Do people impersonate humans? Have a cooled out Day 22 of Flash August Fiction, 2025.

ape: verb, as in mimic

Strongest matches: emulate, imitate. Strong matches: affect, caricature, copy, counterfeit, ditto, do, echo, impersonate, mirror, mock, parody, parrot, travesty.

Misery is joy. None can be happy until they are miserable. The talents of others is determined by the talentless. Exceeding expectations is insubordinate. If one exceeds previous limits, there is denial. Success is not due to talent, or skill, or working hard, or focused attention. It’s bribed for, or traded for flesh.

Nice days are not allowed. Silence must be broken, pleasantness is a myth. Smiles are conspiracies. Rewards are stolen. Joy is forbidden. Accusations are confessions. Accomplishment is piracy.

Perception is paramount. Honesty is hidden. Improvement is forbidden. Preparation is for fools. Tasks must be incomplete. Love is fiction, sex is for bodies, odorous is ordinary. Cleanliness is costume.

Rest is joyless, work is punishment. Compensation is undeserved. Payments are privileges. “You are fortunate that we allow you to work for us, you expect to pay you for the time we grant you, too?”

Nothing is genuine. Everything is suspect. Individuals are objects. Organization is brutality. Tolerance is weakness.

The apes bounded through the kitchen like toddlers. Shaking the house and frightening the children. Nobody knew how exactly this happened. They did the dishes and threw food into the oven, that sometimes turned out OK, people had to eat, so it was endured. Groceries were purchased, paper was handled. It’s somewhat remarkable what they can do.

Homes are boroughs. Public appearances are productions.

The End225 Words

I’ve been feeling pretty prosey lately. Wrote a 900+ word story yesterday, but today it’s barely 200 words. That’s OK, I’ll allow it. I can do that. I released yesterday’s story pretty late because I was busy all day. So you might go check that out if you missed it.

Resting on a quaggy patch of purslane, a vibrant puddle of butterflies disperse in beautiful blue splashes. This is one of Greg’s favorite things to watch as he walks the path down to the back pasture. Sometimes it’s a surprise, because the wings are sometimes not even noticeable until they scatter.

Greg is careful to not disturb the wet grass and the mud patches for that reason. Sometimes he can’t even see them until they launch, as they may blend with the grass, or wildflower growth.

It’s a gorgeous sight as he walks down when the sun in rising. The pastel blue, the lime green, the pink, the yellow. He notes that he never sees them in mixed groups. A wake of welcoming wings, flittering in the light before him, incandescent, and synergistic. Illuminated in the air.

The difficulty in the world weighs on everyone. It is a time of fierce and deadly denial. Greg knows how lucky he is to be able to have these moments. He feels blessed. He gives thanks for these memories.

The orangeness of the morning is fading into day, far too quickly for Greg. If he could get all the work done in this state of the day, that would be very pleasing. Orange time. That’s the best.

The End214 Words

Sometimes these Flash Fiction stories become something I like to keep going. Last time, we left Uncle Plasma riding atop a truck where the two occupants are up to something. Here is the initial Uncle Plasma story. Here is Part 2. I want to encourage other creative writers to experiment with this Flash Fiction method.

Uncle Plasma, obscured by the bent light around him, rides the top of the truck, noting the location carefully. He sees that the truck seems to be taking a serpentine route through a neighborhood.

He thinks out loud, “Interesting route to be taking at this time of night, any number of people can see the truck this way, but not taking a direct way means they could be trying to lose a tail.”

He checks backwards to see if there is anyone following, and it doesn’t appear so. The truck slows down quickly and makes a hard left turn under a bridge with low clearance and Plasma ducks just in time.

“That could have been very bad.” He remarks to himself.

The truck then slows down and takes a slow, deliberate right down a poorly lit industrial alley. Plasma sees dumpsters, scurrying rats, broken windows, strewn trash, and no doubt, illegally dumped construction materials as he lies on the top of the truck box, peering over the right side. On the left, is a fence, with the other side being an embankment to the river, below. Now he knows where he is.

All the way to the end of the alley the Truck parks at the dead end, where there is a warehouse roll-up door. To the left, there is a gangway between the building and the fence.

The driver and the young passenger jump out. There is no pretense of unloading the truck. They go straight up the concrete steps to the man door at the right of the roll-up door. The driver fumbles through his pockets for the key, and the young driver turns around to check behind them.

“I hope we didn’t get followed.” He says, as he seems to look directly up to where Uncle Plasma is observing them.

“Is that a weird looking light above the truck? What is that?” He says to the driver.

The driver turns to see. “It’s just a reflection from the streetlight.” He says. “Run to the back of the truck and see if there’s a sign of anyone behind the truck. Leave the bag here, be stealthy about it.”

The kid drops the bag and slowly sneaks between the truck and the fence. The driver finally gets the door open, and pulls out a portable lantern. “Hurry up!” He whispers loudly.

The young guy sprints back to the door telling the driver that the coast is clear. They go into the building. Uncle Plasma descends from the truck. From the corner of the building, he can see that there are windows along the gangway. He knows that if he tries to look in, the slight glow of the wave form will give him away. He deplasmifies.

Unable to see much, he very carefully hunches down below the window and raises his eyes to see inside. The window next to him is cracked open, so he can hear the two inside. The lantern flashlight is on a desk, discreetly illuminating the event. The driver dumps the bag out onto the desk, it’s full of cash.

“No no no no!” the driver shouts, “There’s a tracking pod! Crap!”

“I can throw it into the river!” says the kid. He grabs the pod and runs to the window. Plasma ducks and tries to get around the corner, he watches from there. “I can’t get it over the trees!” the kid says, as he runs back to the desk. Plasma returns to his previous position under the window.

“It doesn’t matter, that thing will sink, and they know this is my spot, and they’ll put it together, they’ll know.”

“What are we gonna do?” the kid says, anxiously.

The driver looks around the room with the lantern, he finds an empty plastic drinking bottle. He places the pod inside the bottle and explains.

“We’ go to the roof, we’ll throw this thing over the trees into the river, it will float away, that will keep us in the clear, how’s your arm, can you do it?”

“For sure.” Says the kid.

Pete plasmifies and levitates to the roof, once again obscuring himself with a wave form. He waits near a streetlight where he’ll blend in.

The two guys emerge from the roof hatch and accomplish their task, the bottle is thrown into the river, and they leave through the hatch. Pete descends to the river and scoops up the bottle, then levitates back to the gangway, where he carefully remembers the license plate number as the dudes make their departure, each carrying bags. The driver tosses the original bag between the trees, down the embankment.

Pete fully pulls open the window to the warehouse, gets himself up high enough, deplasmifies and tumbles inside. With the moon now above the trees, providing just enough light, he takes a look around to see what the place is about. It’s mostly abandoned, but it looks like a poker spot. There’s a table and chairs, with empty cans and full ashtrays, with a card deck.

He sees a sandwich vending machine. “How can I resist that?” He mutters as though he’s disgusted with himself. He gets a frightening roast beef and cheese sandwich and goes over to the desk, placing the pod on the desk in front of him. He pulls a packet of mayonnaise out of his trench coat and squeezes it onto the sandwich.

Two men burst into the room to see Pete sitting there with his sandwich in his mouth.

Pete holds up the tracking pod between his thumb and finger. “You looking for this?”

The End918 Words

Prose for Flash August Fiction. Day 19. What an amazing morning where I am, currently. I want to thank you for connecting with me here. As an aside, before the story, I want to share this article with you. It adds scientific credence to how cool your mind and your brain are. → Study Reveals Universal Pattern Brain Wave Frequencies. You are really something.

The tall, hay grass was waving gently in the cool, easy morning breeze. Cloud cover was, thus far, staving off the heat on the grassy high desert range. As some cattle grazed, and the birds circled, a rooster could be heard in the distance. Lizards scrambled along the dry grounds, between the tufts of long growth, sliding beneath the blown, dried leaves.

In a fertile hollow, tunneling moles left brown, rock, and pebble laden mounds of under soil atop the green grass. Birds picked through that treasure, feeding on larvae and beetles. Mother deer, fed on shrubbery with their delicate, naive young, watching out for predators, and unappreciative two-leggeds.

Large, aged Mesquite trees, drinking from swelled dew drenched root systems with long, winding limbs, sheltered birds. They greeted the morning with their waking songs and the flutter of grooming.

Their pellets dried to dust and their corrosive feces left until next season, when they’ll return to maraud new nests. Owls have exhausted the rabbits, and have moved on to their next domain.

Far above the vista, hawks circle and call, for the off chance of a stray squirrel, or to raid the nests of other birds. Farther still are eagles, shaping a perspective that overlooks several of these scenes. Their territories transcend the lower limitations, and their visage is directly related to their success.

Beneath all the quietness is a low frequency, deep in the bowels is a humming. A low, steady vibratory vamp, that rises up in foreboding implication. It drains the basin, overthrowing verdant futures. It is the sound of will for the sake of will, to forge more metal, for the sake of more metal. And for paper. ←

The End204 Words

Hungry Henry and Rotund Ronald return in Flash August Fiction this month, and they go to the movies! There are so many flavors at the movies! Here are all the links to the previous Henry and Ronald stories. The Cheeseguard, The Stoics, Of Mice and Mushrooms, Of Mice: Live Reading (separate readings of all the above stories)

Hungry Henry and Rotund Ronald have braved their way across a hot parking lot, because they smell popcorn. They are hanging around the back of a movie theater complex, and the smell of popcorn teases them from under a doorway. They are sniffing around and pacing along the bottom of the door. Suddenly, the door opens and a kid working there takes a bag of trash to the dumpster.

“Step right in, folks.” Henry says, and they skritch their way into the event. The gap beneath the emergency exit doors are enough for the boys to get in, scot-free. Their anticipation for their feature presentation precedes them.

“We’re lucky no one fills these places up no more.” Henry says.

“But enough for us to be able to sample some of their excess.” Responds Ronald.

As they look around the immenseness of the Cinema, they quickly return their focus to their intended purpose.

“I think we should examine the seating areas.” Ronald suggest.

As they bounce along the floor, from row to row, they know they have hit pay dirt. Ronald continues, “This floor is delicious.”

“It’s like a giant scratch and sniff thing.” Henry agrees. “It’s all different flavors all over the place.” I got popcorn butter here, now it’s soda pop. Here’s some chocolate, some ships, all ground up and salty and sour and sweet and sticky, all at the same time, like the kids eat, but just spread out all over.”

The two of them are in a euphoric sprint, sampling the varietal surface of the theater floor. Easily avoiding the purview of the smattering of guests.

Ronald finds a satchel of peanut shells. “Someone has been sneaking items into this theater”, he says, and he buries his nose into the plastic baggie.

“Hey, hey!” Henry says. “I just found what we was lookin for, a half a bag of popcorn… with too much butter!”

Ronald lifts his head from the salty peanut shells and bounds over to meet Henry. “This is delightful,” he says.

As the two of them make haste on the bag of discarded, butter seeped popcorn, the movie goes on, the small audience don’t even notice them. Then, One of the employee flashlights stirs them from their feast.

“Stay still!” Henry whispers assertively.

The attendant side shuffles down the aisle, while Henry and Ronald hide behind the chair anchor. The young employee, bends over, picks up the popcorn bag, and notices Henry and Ronald. Their eyes widen as they stare, frozen, at the young man’s face. The attendant smiles at them. He giggles, and drops a couple of kernels in their direction. He turns and leaves.

“Oh my goodness”, says Henry. He turns to look at Ronald, to see that he has fainted from fear.

“Hey! Wake up buddy, C'mon, snap out of it!” Hungry Henry slaps Rotund Ronald across the face. Ronald comes to, shaking his head back and forth.

“Are… are we dead? Is… is this the afterlife?” He says, looking around, mystified.

“No dude, we’re OK, that kid was one of the good ones.” Henry answers.

“Good heavens.” Ronald says.

“You know what, Ronald? I wanna know what it’s like to sit in one of them seats.”

“I can see, down this row, that someone has left a foot pedestal down.” Ronald replies.

They run along the floor down the row of seat until they reach the pedestal. They hop up. “I think we can make this.” Henry says. He hops, and makes it onto the fabric of the seat. He turns around, waiting for Ronald.

Ronald tries his jump, and he bounces off the front of the seat and lands on his behind. “C’mon, Ronald”, Henry laughs. “I think you can do it, try again.”

On this jump, Ronald gives a squeak in his effort, his front claws dig into the front of the seat, and he pulls, and struggles, and squirms his way up.

Ronald pats his belly. “It’s a good thing I eat so much, I’d never be strong enough to do that.” He says, with a self-deprecating smile.

They settle in on the seat and Ronald, disappointingly, says, “This doesn’t look like a very exciting movie, there’s nothing happening.”

Henry agrees. “Aww jeeez, it’s one of them romcoms.”

The two mice keep their eyes open as long as they can, before finally drifting off into their-post meal naps.

The End 730 Words

Thanks for the sharing and the re-stacking on substack, and for the nice conversation here at substack and also at X.

I like Uncle Plasma. I had to see where this story is taking me. Here's the first one. That’s how this is. We are all the way past Parts 1 and 2 of the halfway mark of Flash August Fiction. Now this is Part 2 of a new thing, Uncle Plasma. Thanks for reading, listening, sharing, restacking, and all the things.

Arriving at the gas station, Pete eyes a hot dog special.

“I swear these people are trying to kill me. How am I supposed to resist 2 dogs for 4 bucks?”

At the fixins counter, Pete grabs two mayo packets. There are only three there. “Hey, you got any more of these little mayo packets?”

“No sir, what you see is what we have left, tomorrow more coming, customers only sir, please.” The guy says.

“You know I’m a customer.” Pete says, as he stuffs the two packets in his pocket.

“You having hoddugs tonight sir?”

“Yeah, I’ll take two dogs.”

“Only two hoddugs tonight sir? OK, two hoddugs four dollar.”

“I think it’s ingenious the way you take the word hot dog and make a a one syllable word. Only a real American could pull that off.” Pete tells him.

“Thank you sir, I’m glad I can contribute.” The guy says.

Pete instructs him. “Just do me a favor and don’t call it a glizzy. That’s some kind of sick psyop, designed to destroy our nation’s number two symbol of food, fun, and freedom.

“Don’t worry sir, I will never say this word.” He responds.

“It sounds like a dirty sex habit.” Pete says.

“There is something wrong with this sir. Yes, I agree” They guy says.

“The kids are being sabotaged.” Pete concludes.

“I pray for them, sir.” The guy says.

Pete thanks the gas station guy and both of the hot dogs are essentially down his throat by the time he reaches the sidewalk. He crumples up the wrappers and wipes his hands on the napkins, tossing them into the garbage can. As he bends down to pick up a stray napkin he notices something in the overgrown area of shrubbery at the end of the parking lot.

There is some kind of duffel sitting under the lowest branches of the plants. If he hadn’t bent over, he never would have noticed. It could be nothing. Someone may have lost it when they stopped, it could be a bag of trash. Pete knows that it may be something, too. He knows better than to just walk over and check it, in case it’s dangerous, or, in case it is being watched. What if it’s a pickup spot for organized crime?

Pete nonchalantly walks over to that corner of the building, makes the left turn around the corner out of sight, throws his arms down, cups his hands, and plasmifies. Plasma swirls around his body, and bends the light, allowing him to seem invisible, but for the waveforms. He’s going to stake the place for a while, to see what happens.

In this plasmified state, Uncle Plasma can use a technique to detect camera lens reflections. From the corner of the building, he scans all around the area, and the only camera he sees is the one at the intersection, and that camera does have a view of the duffel area. Unless someone placed the duffel from the other side of the bushes, there will be a record of it getting there. He flashes some light at the camera, so that when the footage is viewed, this point in time will be easy to find.

To get a better vantage, he levitates himself to the roof of the gas pump shelters. He does a quick scan of the area, and hops over to the roof of the gas station. From there, he lowers himself back to the front corner of the building, and settle in next to the ice machine.

Just then, a large box truck pulls into the lot. It stops, and a young kid jumps from the passenger seat, and he runs over to, and then behind the bushes. The truck pulls into the corner spot, right next to the bushes, while the driver goes in to the store. Uncle Plasma can see that the truck is blocking the view of the corner from the intersection camera.

The bushes rustle, as the duffel is pulled out of the bushes from the other side. Uncle Plasma levitates himself to the top of the truck. The driver comes out of the store with four hot dogs, enters driver seat and pulls away from the spot and leaves the lot without the young passenger. From atop the truck, Plasma shoots a flash at the camera before getting out of sight of it.

The truck leaves the way it came in. As the truck gets to the back side of the gas station, it stops. The young passenger with the duffel appears from behind the store and gets in the truck, and it takes off down the street.

“Let’s see where this goes.” Plasma says to himself.

The End787 Words

Well, we’’ have to get to the conclusion of this installment soon, and then I guess, the Uncle Plasma origin story.

A lot of animal stories again this month. Welcome to the second half of the halfway point of Flash August Fiction. It’s all downhill from here. Thanks for your interest, your reading, your listening, your sharing and restacking. https://x.com/HerschSterling

Three crows are chatting on an electric line overlooking a parking lot at a declining family owned grocery store.

“My dad used to tell me about some good old days, or something, when this place used to be hopping with the people, and it was pretty easy to pick up some grub in the back.” One of the crows said.

“I still prefer it to that big box place down the road.” Says another. “One old bird I know was poking at a sandwich, and God knows that they’re doing to their food, but he hasn’t been the same since, he’s all slow and kind of dumb, and it seems like he has brain fog.”

“Even here at this place, it’s a lot like eating nothing sometimes.” Says the third crow. “I ate a lot of the stuff back in that dumpster one day, and I was full, but still hungry as heck just an hour later.”

The first crow responds, “There’s still nothing like a good old-fashioned road kill.” All three of them erupt with a chorus of caws in agreement.

Crow number three asks, “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

“I wanna go see that lady with the chickens, sometime those dried crickets and worms she throws in there end up outside the prison, I like those.” Says one crow.

“Yeah, that will be in an hour or so, that’s always a good time. I feel sorry for those gals in there, though.” Says the other.

“I feel sorry for the odd field mouse that sometimes finds their way into that place, good God, those girls are brutal.” They all rattle and click with approval.

As they overlook the scene, they see a customer has let spill some things from their bag, and something rolls under the vehicle. They take flight and circle the scene, waiting for the car to leave. As it drives away, they descend, to scope the scene.

“Oh my goodness! We scored! Cherries!” One of them yells, and they quickly dive to the surface and begin snacking.

“Oh man, they’re fresh and everything.” Say a crow.

“These would be great with crickets and worms.” Says another.

“I’d say it’s time to go see that crazy lady and her prisoners. Let’s take them a few cherries.”

The End384 Words

Today and tomorrow are both the halfway point of Flash August Fiction, because the month has an odd number of days. Welcome to the first half of the halfway point of my Instant Fiction Marathon. 31 brand-new stories and podcasts in 31 days. DISCIPLINE, the FUN kind. You can find me at Xhitter, if you’d like to: https://x.com/HerschSterling, and probably any podcast app.

Margie couldn’t figure out why the sky seemed peculiar. There was something about it. When she looked up into the clouds, it was an odd kind of feeling, or an unfamiliarity about it. The hue was off; the density was different.

When she consulted with her friends and neighbors, some said it was just her imagination, or that maybe she was feeling out of sorts. Others agreed, and also felt strange about it. A couple of people also noted that things had been more quiet. Birds seemed less audible, and airplanes made less noise, too.

Margie combed the news for anything that could help her explain things. She read all the articles about weather modification and all the other types of cloud seeding, but she was not convinced it was enough to effect her in the way this was. Those things disturbed her, of course. Sociopathic people in positions of power, using secrecy and conspiracy to achieve their financial and power goals, was nothing new, and there isn’t much decent, sane people can do to change that.

There was something deeper, it was happening in a deeper, more emotional way. Something was elementally foreign to her at her core. It affected her soul. The sky was wrong.

It’s not as though it was damaging her, because she’s a strong woman, the real kind. Not the rich lady kind of strong, but the actual type of strong woman, in her mind, soul and will. This situation, however, was subtly affrontive. She felt insulted, in a way. She knew that the right thing to do in a situation like this is to be honest about it, face it, solve it. And then, if appropriate, forgive. There was a problem though, she didn’t know who, or what, to solve, or forgive.

Again, she went to her friends, and some of them became defiant. They asked her why she was still focused on the wrong sky and that there are more important things to think about. They levied conspiracy accusations against her, and she thought that was odd, because the last time she spoke with them about it, they agreed with her. They had their experiences too, and they had even confirmed her observations. Now, it seemed like they were participating in gaslighting. It was as if they had only agreed with her because they wanted something, now that they didn’t need her anymore, they could alienate her.

Margie did the things she does. She prayed, she asked for discernment, and patience. She spoke with her friends, who didn’t insult her with gaslighting. They vowed to continue their efforts, and to get to the bottom of this situation.

She realized that there were people who claimed friendship with her, who were disingenuous, and that they seemed to have improvements in their wardrobes and their level of creature comforts. It’s not her imagination. There is nothing wrong with her. It’s not her and her compatriots who have a problem. The sky is wrong.

The End498 Words

Have you ever lived in a time when literally everyone knows about a thing, but so many people want to go on as though they don’t know the thing? Isn’t that a weird feeling? It’s kind of rude, really.