Remote

By Mike Bozart

Two sexagenarians meet up to reminisce and discuss a science-fiction novel (that has a not-so-happy ending) written by the one who now lives alone in a cabin in isolated, rural Oregon.

Thoughts, notes, and health issues come into play.

Rating: PG-13.

Word count: 3131.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Bozart
• Release date: Mar 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463407127

Mike Bozart

Mike Bozart was born in the tidewater area of Virginia (US Navy kid) on a hot afternoon in 1964. He attended a mix of public and Catholic grade schools. After graduating with an Earth Science degree from UNC-Charlotte in 1986, he started doing safety technical writing.Former residences in North Carolina include Raleigh, Greensboro, Wilmington, Carolina Beach, Etowah and Asheville. Charlotte is his current residence. He has also lived in downtown San Francisco (early '90s).Mike has written numerous surreal poem-stories and over a dozen 1500-word quasi-real short stories under the psecret psociety heading. Gold, his first novel, was rough-drafted in just 27 days during a seven-week period (May 23 – July 11, 2013).Mike's first novella was To Morrow Tomorrow (2014); his second was Mysterieau of San Francisco (2015).Mike does artwork under the nom de brosse of m. van tryke.The author is happily remarried (Sharon) with a son (Kirk).

Book preview

another pSecret pSociety pshort pstory

Remote by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | March 2021

Remote

by Mike Bozart

© 2021 Mike Bozart

Hello Jim, how are you doing out there in rural Oregon? sixty-one-year-old John Hammeremmah asks from his bare-save-a-white-plastic-chair, 4th-floor, uptown-skyline-facing, faux-wrought-iron-railed apartment balcony in midtown Charlotte on an overcast-after-a-spell-of-morning-rain, cool-but-no-longer-chilly Monday afternoon, the 19th of February 2018. Wonder if the solitary life has him quacking with the ducks. Or chirping with the chipmunks? Do chipmunks chirp? Or cluck? Mother clucker!

Doing fairly well, longtime comrade, the white-hair-gone-very-thin-now, sixty-two-year-old, recliner-ensconced, cabin-enclosed Caucasian gent replies into his thicker-than-most smartphone as a sleety rain plays ting-tong on the westside windowpanes. Sleet is sublime for writing; it encourages one to tap farther. Who said that? Was it Doug? [another SFSU classmate] Where’s he now? Florida? Which coast? Has he become a ‘Florida man’? [internal