Pendulum + Year two

(~5m)

Author

Martin Boehme
July 31, 2026

Hello again, and welcome to year two of Bloomside.

This is usually where someone my age would say something about how quickly time passes, but honestly, this has been a very long and full year. Very rollercoastery.

The last time I was on a rollercoaster, I had to close my eyes and meditate, focusing on my breath so I could get through my complete lack of agency as my body was being flung about at high speeds. But this project has been very good, I think, in a much more steady and enjoyable way, like the tide, or many other things that you don't generally find at an amusement park.

I'm sure I have more to say on that—Bloomside itself, not the rollercoaster metaphor—but first, it's time for last month's flash-fiction poll winner.

Pendulum

There's a painting of a grandfather clock leaning up against the wall, hidden behind the piano in my apartment.

It was my great grandmother's, which I suppose makes it a painting of my great great great great—wait—great great—well, you get the point.

I can't bear to look at it.

No one even knows who painted it. We went to visit her one day, near the end, as we would later find out, and it was there, above the fireplace she hadn't been allowed to light by herself in some time.

It was muted and masterful. The grandfather clock itself was hers, one I remembered watching many times in my youth, rapt with attention and awaiting the comforting chime of the quarterly notes it would play to me.

The pendulum held a blurred reflection of my great grandmother herself, though the eyes weren't quite right. Reflections are probably difficult. I'm not a painter, so who am I to say, really?

We wanted to ask who painted this for her, who set it atop the mantel, but she wasn't in a great place for giving answers anymore.

"That's not me; that's not me!" she would say to us if we asked, slamming her hand repeatedly into the arm of her chair.

"We know; we know. It's just a reflection in a painting. You're okay."

We covered it in cloth, and she offered nothing more.

Two years later, I still haven't unwrapped my inheritance from its cloth barrier more than a few times.

I was sure that the pendulum had been to the left before, but it was not.

I was sure that her hair was a heron white before, but it was not.

The eyes remain as I remember them.

I haven't shown anyone else; I already know what they'll say.

They'll say it's me.

But it's not.

This is usually where someone my age would offer you a choice between two seeds of flash fiction, to be grown and harvested over the next month. But I've decided to put a pause on the voting aspect.

It's been a great way to help me navigate my writing as I explore this medium, but now I want to try putting the responsibility of choice back on my shoulders. Art and life both require the courage of choosing.

Maybe I'll choose poorly a few times, or maybe even a lot of times. Maybe all of the times? Regardless, I don't want to delegate the important work of becoming my final self.

As my likely favorite author, or at least my favorite in this moment, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., once said, "The primary benefit of practicing any art, whether well or badly, is that it enables one’s soul to grow."

Stumbling my way into fiction has been a very soul-growing experience. I'll have another story for you next month, and though I don't know what it's going to be quite yet, you'll just have to trust me.

I started writing my thoughts out a little over a year ago so I could get better at pointing my mind at new things in a time where I had been stuck in a deep and continued grief. A year ago today, I chose to share them as Bloomside because I wanted a more human way of connecting online. Straight to your inbox, straight to a person, pondering and telling stories as a way of sharing my love of the written word.

I've given my time to a lot of different projects over the years, but this has been one of the better ones, I think.

Thank you so much for being here, and keep blooming,

Martin

PS: I anticipate I'll be working on my novel idea(s) again in the latter months of the year. Where's your favorite place to read or write? I used to park by a river, balance an iPad on the steering wheel, and write with a keyboard on my lap. Lately, I just try to picture the story in my head on walks, at cafés, and in the shower to watch how it unfolds. At some point, it just seems to be ready, and I type out the first draft in a sudden burst wherever I happen to be at the time.

PPS: I have attached for educational purposes a rendering of a snail, who, upon finding themselves in need of a day on the pond, can simply flip their shell around and use it as a rowboat.

Previous stories from Bloomside:

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