Everyday, with Dr. Elias Locke · Thursday, November 5, 2026
A fictional column from the Electric Icarus universe, created by Jon LaBelle
The Catalog of Almosts
Thursday.
I was in the back room of Miss Hattie Quill’s alterations shop when she called my attention to a new book on the counter.
It was a catalog, thick as a Sunday supplement, with a burgundy cover and gold letters:
THE CATALOG OF ALMOSTS
A COMPENDIUM OF THINGS THAT NEARLY HAPPENED
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Delivered this morning,” she said. “No return address. But it seems to be for the town.”
We opened it carefully. The catalog was arranged by category: Inventions That Nearly Worked, Buildings That Were Nearly Built, People Who Nearly Left, and Festivals That Were Nearly Canceled.
Each entry included a brief description, a date, and a note explaining why it hadn’t quite happened. Some reasons were practical—lack of funds, bad weather, or simple hesitation. Others were more personal: “waited for a better time,” “lost interest,” or “assumed it was too late.”
Mr. Bledsoe’s name appeared on the first page. His entry described a plan to install a windmill that would power the entire farm. The note read: “Materials acquired. Construction planned. Never started.”
He read it and shook his head. “I suppose I did let that one slip.”
Miss Quill found an entry of her own: a traveling sewing wagon, intended to bring mending and alteration services to the outlying communities. The note simply said: “The idea was sound. The timing was not.”
“Timing,” she said, “is a persistent critic.”
By noon, the catalog had made its way to the courthouse, where the mayor proposed a public reading. Some townsfolk laughed at the near-misses. Others grew quiet, recognizing plans they had once made and then set aside.
A man who had nearly opened a bakery insisted the catalog was inaccurate.
“I didn’t nearly open a bakery,” he said. “I bought an oven.”
“An important distinction,” I replied. “Did you ever turn it on?”
He considered this.
“Once. To warm my boots.”
The mayor announced a Committee for the Preservation of Unfinished Ambitions. Its first meeting was postponed because nobody could agree whether the committee should have existed sooner.
I turned to the last section. It was titled: Items Currently in the Almost Category.
The list was short, but it included a blank entry with space for “Your Idea Here.”
“Now that’s an invitation,” I said.
Miss Quill took the pen and wrote: A Community Workshop for Repairs, Inventions, and Second Attempts.
“Do you think it will make it out of the Almosts this time?” I asked.
She smiled. “That depends on whether we treat it like a plan or like a promise.”
We spent the afternoon clearing a workbench at the back of her shop. Mr. Bledsoe offered spare timber. The would-be baker brought his unused oven, though nobody could explain what role it would play in repairing a bicycle.
“Refreshments,” he said.
By closing time, there was a sign on the door, three volunteers, and a broken toaster waiting for attention. The toaster was not repaired. It did, however, provide an excellent argument about the difference between a loose wire and a loose theory.
I left the catalog with Miss Quill, along with a suggestion: keep a copy in the shop, so anyone who needs a reminder can read what nearly happened—and then decide what still can.
For the record, the Catalog of Almosts remains in circulation. It has not been proven to predict the future, correct the past, or offer a refund on missed opportunities.
It does, however, remind us that “almost” is not the same as “never.”
Someone still has to turn the page.
