Lost Letters:

W. S. Boxx
8428 Canterbury Court
Estcourt Station, Maine 04741

November 3, 2017

Dearest friend,

The erasure of cursive from the pedagogic strategies of core curriculum signals a loss in the culture, a fork towards the information age.  Art, in the form of elaborate, thoughtful letters such as those of John and Abigail fossilize before us into petroglyphs like trilobites from the Cambrian explosion.  Extant messages know not the dipped quill from the inkwell, the measured meditations scribed on parchment under the flicker of candlelight, for now, electrons snuff out the tapers of yesteryears and speed instant thought from geocentric orbits as light skips along the aether.  Does it matter, dear friend, in a world where change is the only constant, the uncertainty of quantum mechanics creeping into every facet of foundation, maybe ?

The loops and swirls repeated ad nauseum on ruled newsprint paper until the death of the hand in cramping paralysis, regarded at the time as pointless exercise, have indeed been deemed just so, a waste of the scholastic time allotted, time better purposed by grounding the student in education geared for the cog-less machinery of the digital future, so:  keyboarding.  The solid earth on which one tottled forward on in insouciant surety proves to be riddled with limestone caverns and shifts underfoot.  Has my brief time been wasted in groundwork unfounded ?  The binary code sweeps away such expertise as quaint calligraphic messaging and multiplicative grid rote into the ash-heap of the obsolete.

Unfailingly yours,

Walter S. Boxx

P. S.  The frames of the flipbook shuffle by so quickly that my eyes water from the ruffled air.

 

Chip [based on a true story]

A DEMON RESIDES within Chip’s soul. His mood flip-flops and the faint sound of wind chimes announce his appearances. Chip is a bushy, black dog of questionable ancestry. One night on a walk, dark forces awaken.

Chip pulls the chain taut like sledding huskies, tail high, seemingly happy, but with Chip nothing is certain. Midnight nears, the projects quiet: only the jangle of the dog tag in the night chill.

Suddenly, infrasound vibrates through the chain; then swells into a ferocious growl. Chip wheels around in attack mode, fangs gnashing. Sensing danger behind, Chip fends off an ambushing dog pack.

The Singular Fish

THE SINGLE FISH that is different dives straight down out of the emergent school of fish balled up for protection from the dolphins and diving birds . . . the rest, presumably die, as the unique fish rushes toward the safe rocky nook that swallows it.  Hidden.  You rock fish.