Can’t Sit Still

​
“Okay,” Quilx’tch said, angling his eyes to stare at the human who was crouched in the corner bent over his computer. Bill was wrapped in a blanket and his entire body was making a series of small sustained jerking moments. “Bill is ill. But why isn’t he resting in bed?”
“Eh,” the healthy human continued to boil the ‘chicken soup’ on the small camp stove. “Bill just is one of those humans who can’t sit still.”
“But sitting still is how you conserve energy to heal,” Quilx’tch said slowly, trying to find the point in this conversation that was keeping him from understanding the situation.
“Soup’s ready,” the cook said cheerfully. “Ready to take your sample?”
“Indeed,” Quilx’tch held up the sample container in his foremost legs. “And this ‘chicken soup’ has healing properties?”
“Maybe,” the cook shrugged. “It will make him feel better.”
Quilx’tch filed that thought away and skittered back to his lab. He had learned that sick humans didn’t always like company and he did not know Bill well enough to confidently offer it. He would do his own job in analyzing this foodstuff and would pass on this strange counterproductive behavior to the behavioral anthropologists. 

Masticate, verb to chew 
As in to chew food. 
Masticate is a very useful word in science fiction. It can describe the various motions of chewing that your alien species might use no matter what the structure of their jaw(s) might be, if they have them or if they don't. This pretty much covers any mechanical digestion process. 
Undulates don't masticate in any form however. They just sort of absorb algae. 

 
I shift my feet awkwardly on the use polished concrete and try to look properly respectful. I know that I am supposed to be respectful, maybe awed. Daddy is holding my hand, Little Sister is in the carrier on his back, idly chewing on her thumb as her eyes, bright blue today, roam over the assembled silver heads. I’m not cold yet, despite the December chill in the New England air. Big sister gave me her coat, the thick blue one with the giant buttons before we split at the beginning of the day and you can’t be cold in that coat. No, the discomfort that makes my feet move comes from the knowledge that I am missing something. Not just a little something like what those ‘DO NOT PASS’ traffic signs mean when clearly we drive right past them. No I am missing a big thing.
“Listen!” Daddy says in a hushed whisper, his work rough hands gently, urgently squeezing mine.
I listen. I hear the same thing that the rest of the crowd does; the steady tread of two pairs of feet in gleaming black boots. But I know deep down that I am missing something. I shyly glance up at the rapt faces around me. They are wrinkled, creased with age and care. A few of them have tears in their eyes. Almost all of them are not really looking at the young man and young woman passing each other on the walk in the center of the crowd. No their eyes are looking through the young soldiers, beyond them to something I cannot see.
I am missing something.
There is a feeling here that I cannot feel. There is something sacred here that my seven year old self does not understand. It frustrates me but I stay silent. I do understand that this is not the time or place for my usual string of questions. One of the soldiers vanishes and I wonder where he went, craning my head curiously. The crowd breathes and begins to move, milling about, taking pictures. Daddy slowly leads us forward and we stand in front of the monument. In order to keep my mind busy I carefully read the carved stone.

HERE LIES IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER
​
Even at seven I knew the history. I had heard not only the official explanation but the personal stories of my grandfather about piles of bodies on beaches. I knew the facts, but it would be years before I got what I was missing that cold December day, before I understood that I would probably never truly understand what was going on in their hearts and minds when the old men cried at the changing of the guard. 

Around the World in 80 Tales
The Ultimate Coffee Table Book
Have you ever found yourself sitting around a coffee table with your friends, talking about exotic locals, and yearning to see more of the world? David Tomlinson opens a world of conversation topics, genuine entertainment, and not a little fascinated perplexity to the casual coffee shop page flipper. With a large​ chunk of his life spent living out of his backpack Tomlinson has a rare perspective, and a wonderful spirit of wanderlust, to share with his readers. “Around the World in 80 Tales” is a series of stories set in no particular order; from the crowded “mass transit” of Indonesia to the wild empty spaces of Kangaroo Island off the coast of Australia.
Tomlinson is humorously, often brutally, honest about what a Westerner feels when confronted with the often loud and raucous elements of travel adventures. He manages to capture the agony of being woken from sleep of questionable  quality to the sounds of a foreign city as well as forcing one’s self awake in the oxygen deprived air of high mountains so that you can catch a glimpse of the most beautiful sunrises in the world. He does not spare the dirty details nor ignore the sublime ones.  In short he manages to capture the life experience of traveling in several dozen five-hundred word snippets. This book will whet your appetite for adventure.
His writing voice is a bit rough around the edges. This is definitely the work of an ‘everyman’ and not a polished academic production.  Some readers might find their sensibilities twinging a bit at his blunt honesty about his reactions.  All in all it was an enjoyable read and left me itching to put on my boots and keep walking until I saw a wallaby. 

Sunny days can make one sleepy.

After any exertion be it racing down the Yukon or a hard week's work it is critical to get proper rest. 
Also certain authors are very sleepy. 

Reflection: Noun, an image, behavior, or sound that mimics something else. 

Reflections are an oft used plot device in many different genres. 

Which was the reflection and which was real? It was hard to tell in this confusing place. There had to be a way to get out of this situation? 

The snow is melting off from the peaks of the mountains in North America, revealing many beautiful scenes. 
Here a building peeks out from under a blanket of snow. 

Success! 

After three days of selling "Dying Embers" this author managed to move all of the copies that had been brought for the festival have been sold! It was  a great festival. The aliens were out in force and abductions were restricted to the willing and the eager. Even the scariest of aliens decided to go for the local pizza place rather than the locals. 

​