I pretended it was a museum, filled with the oldest stuff I had ever seen. Crowded and dusty behind smoke-stained glass. Relics from a world that no longer existed. No signs, but the rule was understood: “Do Not Touch”. Admission cost a kiss on the cheek and Nana’s cigarette breath.
Robert Ludemann is happily retired and getting better each day at not working.
He was tired of setting world records. Everyday for eight years, thousands of world records. For walking a mile, for riding a bike, for waking up in the morning, another world record. He had the world record for the most world records.
Then the oldest human to ever live
died.
Robert Ludemann is happily retired and dodging as much responsibility as possible.
They had been at it for two days. Stony silences and rock-hard words. All over the number of throws and the placement of cushions; silly. A thirty-year journey from their childlike pillow fights as newlyweds. They shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much, laughing inside, adamant in their commitment. Eternally wedlocked.
Robert Ludemann is hppily retired and trying to say as little as possible.
The lady who creates the fabric of time-space lives around the corner from me. She’s always there on her porch, knitting, scowling and smoking Tiparillos. You work so hard, I say, and she grimaces “I have to…” but nothing more. Today, she was gone, and so was the moon.
Robert Ludemann is quietly retired and barely making a peep.
I wish I could explain it; I don’t really understand it. But I know it’s true that it is all my fault. All the trouble I’ve created. I never have understood my own strength. I just can’t stop: it is who I am, what I do. I am truly sorry.
Robert Ludemann is happily retired and at his desk writing.
His Childhood was scared out of him, run off by the lash. But now, on this silent night in a less than jolly world, perhaps the greatest gift: from the twinkling lights on the tree, the family’s stockings, the crackling fire, he realizes he is still a child at heart.
Robert Ludemann is happy and retired, and that is the long and short of it.
I’m full of holes, absolutely riddled. I’m mostly not here. Caught between a particle and a wave. Not knowing how I’m held together, but there is something solid here. I’ve banged my head against the wall enough trying to prove it.
Then I hold your hand and understand the universe.
Robert Ludemann is happy retired and that is the long and short to it.