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Little Fears & Anonymole

Here’s to LittleFears and his tenacious passion for puns and evocative art.



The sight of the beast, the woman’s partner said, provoked childhood fears the likes of which he’d suppressed — through therapy — and would care not to have them resurface.

The DI placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “But we need your statement.”

The fellow shook his head and narrowed his eyes at the detective. “This is going to haunt me forever. My little fears, they grow huge at night. You don’t know what I…”

“Without your help, Chastity’s death will go unpunished.”

At six am, the station had just started to buzz with activity. The smell of coffee and sweat drifted through the corridors. The heatwave continued unabated.

“Fingers like knives, blades extending from every angle of its body and a… a snout like it had descended from some primeval creature. And its eyes, lover’s eyes. Hungry lover’s eyes, that consumed me. Then it nosed down and began to… to feed.” The lad leaned forward and gripped his face, his voice muted. “Chassie’s b… blood, black in the streetlight, dripped…”

“Good,” The DI interrupted, pulled his phone out, tapped it and set it on the table. “Now again, from the top.”



Writer’s Log: 2017 Jack

Writing is like:

Riding a unicycle,

on a guywire,

juggling apples and alligators,

while simultaneously,

planning your next act,

with seven other players,

in a circus you’re designing for the next town,

as you remain cycling to and froe,

twisting a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue,

which you spit into a glass thirty feet below you,

never taking your flirting eyes off the trapeze artist,

teetering just out of reach of your toothsome gator,

at the same time dictating your nefarious plans for world domination and the demise of the human race,

to the parrot you have riding in your birdcage hat.

A writer is a jack-of-every-trade, never satisfied, always learning, constantly exploring what’s around the bend.


On a happier note

Having commuted over it more times than I care to admit, I often thought of those who took the plunge.


Old and poor? Crime pays

Years ago I thought that if you were elderly and poor, homeless even, then committing a crime in order to go to prison (three squares, a bed, TV and mates to talk to) would be an ideal habitat.

Turns out the Japanese are doing just this. See the comment below (link included).

What else should the elderly be doing? Sharing their homes with oppressed college kids who need to save $ for room & board?

Dangerous work that doesn’t require high physical strength or acuity?

The military. Don’t send youngsters in to a war zone – send old folks?

Rare Earth: more evidence

I keep a running list of the reasons why we should consider Earth as rare in the Universe.

Two additions I’ve recently added are this:

• Theia’s impact delivered more than just iron and nickel to Earth’s core (producing an extra large magnetosphere) but also (probably) delivered additional carbon, nitrogen and sulfur — chemicals which, like oxygen and hydrogen, are volatile and tend to get boiled off during a planet’s accretion phase (forming from the solar system’s proto-disc).

• Tidally locked planets and moons would lose their magnetosphere (the dynamo engine within a iron molten cored planet). Without this magnetic shield solar and cosmic radiation would ravage any life that had arisen on the planet.

The reason I keep this list is that it supports the 2^Nth theory I maintain about how to calculate a Rare Earth.


The “Two to the N’th” theory is an approximate probability that describes the uniqueness in the Universe of a electromagnetic-energy manipulating species — that is, us. Essentially, all factors that contributed to the existence of humanity can be distilled down to coin flips. Every coin flip = 50% probability. Add up a bunch of coin flips (landing on heads) and you get a probability that represents how unique we are.

For instance: If we assume that one out of every two stars in the Universe/Galaxy is singular not binary (binary star systems are too unstable to support planetary life) that’s coin flip number one (2^1). Of those, if half are the right size (a very conservative estimate) — another coin flip (2^2). If you examine all the factors, turn them into 50% (one flip) or 25% (two flips) or 12.5% (three flips) etc. you end up with a whole load of coin flips or powers of two (2^Nth).

I’ve done the compilation (that is, keeping this growing list) and determined that over 60 is the current number of coin flips that all landed up “heads” which represents how lucky/unique we are in the universe. The probability of flipping 60 coins and ALL OF THEM landing heads — represents the probability of Humanity.

How often would 60 coin flips all land on heads? Well, we know it happened at least once (that US!). But what is 2^60th power?


The probability of Humanity is 1 out of 1.1 quintillion. Is that rare? Probably.

I continue to collect these “features” which helped contribute to our existence. I suspect that we’ll get to seventy here some time soon: 2^70 = 1 sextillion.

Here’s a handy approximator:

  • 2^10 = ~one thousand
  • 2^20 = ~one million
  • 2^30 = ~one billion
  • 2^40 = ~one trillion
  • 2^50 = ~one quadrillion
  • 2^60 = ~one quintillion
  • 2^70 = ~one sextillion (or one billion trillion)


Writer’s Log: 1883 Fog

I found a bunch of poems and songs I’d written decades ago. I’ll post these here over a few days/weeks.


Where the sea meets the sand
 humidity finds
its invisible status
 has left it behind.

A chilling night air
 bumps head to head
with a moist ocean breeze
 and between them they shed
a mist.

A rolling white specter
 so think it’s been dubbed
with an untouchable texture
 an ethereal rub.

Fog is its title
 confusion its wake,
leaving all standing idle
 while the sun works to make
a fist…

To punch through this blanket
 to tear it to shreds,
but remorse moves to thank it
 for fog’s presence led…

Us to ponder our lives
 and their continual rush
to question our pace
 to instill a hush…

As fog’s dearest treasure
 is silence and calm,
a noiseless deep pleasure
 which soothes as a balm
our souls.


Old dog: New tricks

I’ve had to take a “real” work-a-day job.

Up at 7 am. There by 8 am. Home by 5:30 pm.

Sitting (and standing) in a CUBE FARM, ALL-DAY-LONG.


So, I’ll be wiped for the foreseeable future.

I’ll be learning Microsoft Dynamic AX & X++ for an S&P500 company — maybe it will delay my Alzheimers for a couple of years.