Sol's Random Stories

New neighbor. He could be, Lucy pondered, the oddest man she'd  encountered in a very long time. Yet, she couldn't help being drawn into his lively strangeness, listening for an hour, the casual talk going everywhere. Finally, leaning forward slightly over her cooled honey-ginger tea, peering into his brain, "So, who are you, then?", a quiet inquiry, not meant to challenge. "Yes, that's it, that's the big mystery, isn't it? Who am I, or you, or any of us, as if the right answer will lead to the vein of gold. I've asked this same "who" question daily for decades, and still I cannot know. It's a bothersome question, I feel vexed by it at times, but your asking it is okay. Who am I, then? The truth is that any miracle answer would be good for only a day. What worth is that? Maybe better to forget who we might be, since it's unanswerable, anyway." He then returned to his daily coding puzzle. Lucy broke her almond biscotti ...

Found money. Literally. Rita didn't know it at the time, but still couldn't believe her good fortune. At first, all she noticed was the leather pouch in the alley, leaning against a wall. Rita thought it looked too nice to be discarded. It wasn't until she walked over, picked it up, and looked inside that she realized all at once her life would never be the same again. Rita saw cash. Bindles of it, bound with unmarked bands, all hundreds, more money than Rita had ever seen. The briefcase-sized bag, light brown leather, finely made, contained nothing else. Holding the hefty, strapped pouch tightly, Rita looked all around. There was no one. She took the money home. Alone at her kitchen table, Rita, hands trembling, counted out exactly seventy-eight thousand dollars. Amazing. Rita was tempted to think it was a gift from God, but she was raised better than that. She knew her chance find was at least troublesome. This was someone's cash, Rita had no doubt. Someone who ...

Ned remembered that certain New Year's, so long ago, when he learned a very important, lasting life instruction, a big lesson, never forgotten. After all, seven years old, by design is not the wisest time in one's new existence. It was New Year's morning, early, the Leimert Park apartments were still asleep, Ned's friends were nowhere. Bored, he took a stroll down the long alley behind his building, didn't matter which direction. Alleys are always scavenger paths. There's always something interesting to see or find around everyone's trash cans. Walking along, Ned soon spotted a tiny glass bottle, red, it was lady's nail polish. Of course, every lad's a painter, so he unscrewed the crusty cap, trying the brush out on the side of a can. Brightest blood red color, didn't take Ned long to dab a dot on his arm, and notice how real it looked. That's precisely when Ned got his most unfortunate idea. He painted a long swath of the gash red nail...

(From 2017) Sun setting on another year. Next one nearly here. We won't get another sun, same one. We won't get any new rain, it's the same, returning from five million millenniums ago.  You have a yearning for this past year? Lingering its exit? Better lament fast, the horizon pulls down the last orange hours, then the dark ending. There are powers so beyond understanding, that bend the galaxy's path, that spark a brand new heart, biophysical mysteries of grandeur and majesty drawing freestyle the next civilization's zodiac of stars.  Thank God we're not in charge, what a mess we would make of the cosmos. Look what we've done here, in such a short time. The prime of progress or the crime of regress, it's hard to tell sometimes, which is winning. New year, new beginning. Another chance to get it right, get it done, get it all better. Or some of it, and then there's the lurking unexpected, there will be plenty of that, too, we know it's always the...

Does lake dream of mountain?  Does forest dream of rolling fields?  Does desert dream of cool waves?  Do caves underground dream suns?  Everywhere dreams a new reality?  Could night dream of you and me?

Very young, when I first heard the word irony, I thought it was what moms felt, stuck with housework, like ironing. Or, kindergarten year, I oddly believed the principal lived at the school, until a girl said she saw him driving home. Maybe six, my mom would take me along to these very lively auctions on Washington in the Adams District.  Always believed the shouting, animated auctioneer guy was upset, and I wondered why. My mom, of course, couldn't understand my dopey question, so I came up with my own reason: he also didn't want to be there. We make it through childhood despite often misunderstanding reality. All the while- this past year most certainly- reality hasn't stopped being illusive. Then, what unknowingly odd or wrong things do I think now, as a grown-up?

You could see Coach was revving up, getting into her stride- she absolutely loved her stage, the entire gym with its resounding echo. Her audience of players were all silent, focused on her every impassioned word- it was the Saturday morning practice sermon. "So, okay. This is your riddle for today. Let's say I'm a player on this team. One of you. Just played the regional game against our arch rivals, and we won. I had a total of four points in thirty-eight minutes on the court- one basket, then later two free throws, two rebounds. Later, coach gave me unofficial MVP for the game. How did this happen?" Two arms shot up right away, the team captain and assistant captain. Coach wouldn't choose them because they better know the riddle's answer. The others pondered quitely for a minute, then you could see each face light up with the same realization. Then, at least two players, maybe three shouted out together- "Assists!" "Yes!", Coach be...

The old white raven was alone now.  His mate of twenty years passed this morning, falling from a branch into the kind grass, no remorse for a moment, of course, to the final frozen silence. He went to another nearby tree, lost. Not knowing now what to do alone. They often sang together, the forests their echoing chorus- both could deftly mimic nearly any sound they heard. Her favorite was to mimick the fox, mocking the critter's screamy, high-pitched howl. His favorite, the wolve's low, drama growl. The two were smart, even smarter together. Both white ravens loved to be lazy. Tricking other animals into catering their preys' leftovers, all good fun, a long, beautiful life, always together. Sacred birds, mating once, forever, there will be no other now for the old raven.  Only waiting for the coming darkness.  

Have to just guess at it, not sharp enough to know more than imagining: most trees must resign themselves to their birthspot, the precise latitude and longitude that a seed sprouts to root, where a venerable tree stands its life. No location perfect, but certainly this one must be near ideal, firmly grown into a waterfall's hillside crest, as a sturdy clump of wood with green, springing keenly out of the river like a joyously landscaped planting by some great Gardener's Hand, just in place with its pristine, eternal surroundings. This was a tree's near utopia, as most trees must endure the four seasons' challenging extremes. Thru the year's wide arc, blessed water- the lifeblood of every living tree's fate- rises and lowers in roots' underground aquifers. Most trees are thirsty for half their proud lives, but too stoic to ever complain- and then each new season comes around again. Periodic but random droughts and wild fires- ravenous monsters in a fore...

The lucid moment when something strange occurs, some cartoon physics reveals the dream as such, you remain asleep yet awaken within the scene, you then become the dream's Director, re-writing scripts freely in real time.

Would you run down the mind's long, unknown corridors with eyes closed, faith's instinct your compass?

Read how some science guy figured out the answer to the question, which is more, earthly grains of sand, or stars. The winner? You already know.

Maybe it's not strictly moral. But it's right for Sergio Ortiz. Just feels like the right thing, that's what he trusts. Every Sunday, this one customer stops by his Farmer's Market organic vegetable stand. Gucci bag, diamonds, a patient housekeeper always with her. This customer will always snark to Sergio about his prices, they're just too high for his quality, she'd claim. He had no signs out on some items, so typically he'd charge her double. She'd grumble some, with her silent assistant always embarrassed, then stalk off until next week. Sergio laughed afterwards- her greediness is charged more, he rightfully reasoned. On Saturdays, Sergio usually sees this wonderful Gautamalan family, also his birth country, with grandma and five kids, always polite, very friendly. They are crop workers, their purchases limited. So, he only charges them half or less for anything they need, their sweet grandma always taking his hand in gratitude. Sergio Ortiz ha...

It was a perfect hiding place. A cubby hole maintenance closet behind two dark corridors, then behind a latched metal grate. In the shadows, the spot was invisible. Barron Spalding, lifetime petty criminal, had eyeballed the forgotten room for a couple of weeks. It seemed to be a ghosted subway space, perfect for his nefarious plans. Forty-five and a career thief, Spalding was long past going to Confession. His life was a daily war of staying alive and out of jail. His tools were many. Pickpocket, bag switch, rolling drunks, and a few times, knife and mask. So far, he's never actually stuck anyone, but feels nothing when scaring his victims half to death. It's been profitable, and he's only been caught twice, both times plea-bargained out. Back to his best skill, Aaron's only gotten better from experience. All he needed was a stash, a hiding place where he could disappear between his various robberies. This cubby hole was worth a try, he thought, if he's real ca...

When it's 1958, New York City, and you've got a plumb job at a Park Avenue hotel, the old, prestigious "812', you're going to have your moments. Like one morning, Greta Garbo herself steps out of a Checker cab, and your eyes pop like a cartoon. Or, when you're the privately requested concierge for the Governor's guests, and it all has to go perfectly, or else. From expert doorman to consummate concierge, Franky Dullis has seen and done it all, every big or small hotel job. But one day stands out, as doormen like to pun, a day in a long, notable career, unforgettable, uniquely great. But it started out like any typical day for Franky, no clue of the drama afoot. That's how the whole episode started, a police foot-chase beginning at the hotel's far corner off Fourth Avenue. Doormen are trained to stay sharp at all times, Franky already noticed the commotion down the empty sidewalk. Two uniforned officers running full-tilt, and their elusive suspe...

Rhonda recounted to the others how her mom wouldn't allow a single mention of the subject today. Everyone should forget it, she'd say. It was Christmas morning, the excited kids had been up since just after sunrise, missed Santa by one cookie! Sometime later, during the happy unwrapping spree under the tree, little sister Beth was first to notice it, very odd: a cigar ornament hanging from a bough? Everyone was quite mystified.  Where did that come from? Was this a prank? No one knew. Rhonda's mom wasn't amused, but kept silent, with a strange expression, almost a frown. Some family knew or remembered, old enough, but no one nentioned it. The only family member who favored his fancy imported cigars- San Lotano Madura Ovals- often most obnoxiously in use, blissfully ticking everyone off with billows of smoke. But, he was always invited for holidays that this old Scrooge barely tolerated: cranky, unlikeable Uncle Lou! Passed away for a decade now.   There's no r...

What is just close to believing, just beside hoping, just above imagining, just beyond knowing, just ahead of dreaming, just past catching, but traces remain so there's no doubting?

Maybe not fun for the main entree nonetheless, fun to consider how nature itself was First Master Chef,  dino-steaks first heated to a rare char thru constantly surrounding wild fires, or volcano lava roast, or random lightning strike, a flash eatery's instant menu, setting tables for prehistoric feasts and hierarchies of food chain feeders, the first Blue Plate Specials.

Is there coincidence in nature? Or, are we observing something else? Myriad patterns of creation are not linear, nor discernible by our common measure. The complexity of nature is endless. What if the rings of our fingerprints were past lives, each elliptical orbit a layer of existance upon the next?

It's impossible to remember all the time, but recalling occasionally is okay: nothing we see is actually as it seems. You think you've seen the sun setting? You never have. Neither have I, nor has anyone seen the sun setting. You think you're inspired by the light of the North Star, as the wise kings who travelled far to bless the baby Jesus? The light of your inspiration is nearly five hundred years old, that star's light took that long to be seen by any eyes. Every sunset we witness in glorious, majestic splendor happened eight minutes prior to our earthly agape, the time taken thru space. Nothing we see is actually as it seems.

The elderly man stared again at the package. It was carrots and snap peas, with a ranch dressing packet. He tried prying off the cellophane top, couldn't quite grip it right. Stopped again. With left arm supported, the man repositions himself in the wheelchair. This package has become his sole focus, getting it open, a two-second task with no thought. The patient man switches hands, holds down the package, then painstakingly peels back the cover until the very end remained attached to the plastic tray. Exhausted, he pauses for a minute. Many, many changes after a stroke.

Sometimes belligerent traces of a bad dream reappear thru out the day, in a stranger's vacant stare, in a swirling coffee cup, or in a darkened doorway.

Gregory was happy to hear his older brother's voice. He looked down at the list he had been making when the call from Vancouver came. It was a list of 2020 oddities, life upside down for all, and for some, tragic. A year of big grief, fear, uncertainty that the experts only made worse. Gregory, his small family, they were fortunate, overall. The brothers hadn't spoken in a couple of weeks, both still not working, he too self-quarantined with his wife and two kids. Gregory's neice and nephew, teens like his son, were having the same kind of crappy pandemic year, everything ruined, birthdays, holidays, graduation uncertain, Zoom school making everyone miserable. It's been a hot mess, 2020, whole world feels it. "John, I was making a list when you called. What's the weirdest thing for you this f'ed-up year?  We've been lucky, bro, nothin' terrible, right?" There was a long silence, as Gregory's brother pondered the question. "I got an un...

The air itself was grim, heavy with fate. Walter regretted allowing his son to come along to help. But, can't undecide that now. No one knew this would happen today, but it could be any day of these horrible fires. California, wounded for months now- but today was different. Adding to the gruesome count, eighty-five already known perished, hundreds more missing, unaccounted. The nation's deadliest wildfire in a century, the flames ignited Nov. 8 in the parched Sierra Nevada foothills. It quickly spread across 240 square miles, including thousands of homes. Walter had volunteered for a decade, his teen now old enough to help. But no one is ever old enough to see death up close personal, unexpected, final. At the support station, Walter could see his boy- fifteen, but much older today- was shaken, quiet. He will wait a little while before talking with him.

Here, the festive holidays don't help. The quiet afternoon is empty, useless. Are there sadder words than too late? Now, you cannot say how you're really not mad. That you should have called. And, that you really love your mom after all, after all your drama. But, it's just too late to tell anyone anything.

After all, it's a McDonald's in Bizarro World. Slow-food. A walk-thru lane. Hamburger, a bun between patties. Uncut fries whole potato frozen.  Zero billions served.

The grey squirrel and blackbird continued their month-long debate over which critter excelled. "Your last point was weak, squirrel, about your master tree-climbing? Didn't you notice we just fly to any spot? Done. Don't do much climbing!" The grey squirrel snorted back in reply, "And, a fine target you are in the air, while we've actually learned to hide! Doesn't make much evolutionary sense, but we you've come a long way since your dominant, prehistoric day." That last part stung the blackbird, but his peak-smile was frozen with pride. He hated any reference to his size or history. "True, our flight has soared thru strange atmosphere, but we've survived, we're still here! Have you ever been huge, squirrel, in any way?" Just then, human sounds were heard in the park, very near them, voices and steps. As if reacting thru precisely the same reflex, grey squirrel and blackbird instantly scurried and flew to the exact same p...

Whatever gets you to the next dream. Escalating, you deem to have no fear of heights or the near circumstance.  You're well past any self-protection, with however much time remaining, trust that up is not the worst direction.

While her mom thinks how she'll never have hair as shiny, her daughter thinks how she'll never be as beautiful.

Wise, unwise, or borderline abusive? Parenting is personal. Perspectives vary, opinions span a  broad range. Jimmy watched as his flatbed was unloaded, his final delivery, thirty tied-down sacks of dry cement mix. These were thirty-pound sacks, Jimmy was happy on the sideline, as the dock crew made short work of it. Down to a single bag left at the deep end of the truck bed, off the pallet and leaning up on the back of the cab. The foreman hollered for his boys to leave that last one onboard. Then, he calls over a boy who was also watching from a nearby bench, his boy, one assumes. The dad points to the bag, "Son, grab that last one there. Get it over here to the edge." The blue-jeaned lad, a thin, sturdy-looking six year old at the most, carefully climbed up to the truck bed. Reaching for the cement bag, the boy's problem was immediate- he tried pulling it backwards with both hands from the top. It didn't budge an inch. The thirty-pound bag was over half the bo...

Certain traditions in a family can be so important, and for unexpected reasons.  Margie Weaver grew up in paradise. Kid's version, anyway, also known as the candy shop. Weaver's Candies was everyone's favorite place in downtown Sedona. Personally, Margie got tired of candy very early in life. Crunching a cold carrot is good, skip the Ranch dip. At forty-nine, running the store alone now, Margie felt her life was slipping away, one salt-water taffy at a time. She put the key in the store lock each morning with mixed feelings, some not sweet. But, business was good, steady. The store practically ran itself, she mused. Yet, Margie's heart truly longed for change, maybe some adventure? Wouldn't hurt, she thought, distracted from her chores by the store's chimes. Margie's pulse quickened when she saw it was Mr. Holt. First stopping by a month ago, Mr. Holt, a bored and retired regional sales manager, was looking for something to do. Intrigued by Margie's ...

No one knows really how it happens, or that's what everyone pretends. Everyone knows how. It's a sickness, all agree. One day you're in your life, busy, connected. Family needs you for everything, and you provide it. Give, give, more give. Then, situations may suddenly change. People leave. You're all gived out, broke, then overlooked, forgotten. Everyone is eventually gone. You become ill, confused. Lose your home. Hospitalized. Released to a shelter, where you're attacked, twice, then you wander off. Can't return anywhere, then you slip anonymously into an urban twilight of shadow doorways, day by day, mental illness grips your waking hours like a secret enemy, or voices to battle. Nothing more matters. You're lost, absent, gone.

James Frank Morgan waited five long, grueling years. He had all that time to plan. His daydream revenge was like an old movie by now. He knew he had to do it. His double-crossing partner in crime got away with most of the bank loot, then he set Morgan up for the fall. So now, he deserves what he gets. Almost sixty long months of days and nights to think about getting screwed over by someone he never should have trusted, Morgan was all twisted up inside like a deadly coil of pure rage- finally, on parole. Third day back on the streets, he paid a guy for a ghost gun, easy breezy. Speaking of new felonies, he didn't care about state lines, he'll cross borders soon. Morgan knew exactly what he would do. Stick to the plan, then disappear. Best to start shooting just as he opens his door. Empty the clip, fast, then run. Morgan's disloyal partner didn't know he'd left other enemies behind, so tracking him down to a suburb outside of Pittsburgh was simple. But, what J...

"No, Candice, wait. Something to say first. Been thinking. It's been fun, really. But, uh, we must end this. Now. You don't have to give anything back."

His aunt winked at his mom who was standing behind him. Time to have a bit of fun, at a teenager's expense, always even better. Her nephew liked teasing her about being a tech dummy, not knowing a megabyte from a nite light, just barely operating her smartphone, acting like she gets it all. "You betcha boy, I know practically everything about Bluetooth." Her nephew got sucked right in with intrigue as she continued. "I'm all up on the health issues, and I don't see how there's any debate on it. The dangers seem obvious, the risks are clearly documented with research." Impressed with her knowledgeable screed, the aunt's nephew was rapt with interest now, as she prepared to set the hook. "Anyway, if you have even a half a brain, you already know: if you got yourself a Blue Tooth, then you waited too damn long to see the dentist! That's gangrene, boy!" Freshly punk'd by his own aunt, the grumbling teen shook his head, passing ...

"At the beginning, we're given free will. There's no path assigned besides the one we make for ourselves, by choice." Magdalena clearly understood her grandfather's sage words, but wasn't any closer to the answers she needed. Understanding words doesn't mean their truth is also easily understood. Magdalena, sad and upset, wanted very much to understand. They got the news about her cousin yesterday. He was found in a dumpster. They don't know who or why. Sixteen was so very young to die, she felt a slip of cold ghost pass thru her like a drafty death. She shuddered again, and looked out the kitchen window. Magdalena saw her cat sitting on the old stone wall, knowing everything as cats do. But she couldn't ask her cat why. Her cousin had dropped out of school, dumped his old friends for his new gang. They said he drank until he passed out, and the police got to know him. They suspected he was involved with the gang's specialty of burglary, br...

It was a good afternoon. Lunch with two friends. Happy talk, grandkids mostly. The best Porterhouse, garlic mashed potatoes. Now, back at his building, he will stand near the steps for fifteen minutes, tired, embarrassed, keys forgotten in his apartment, before finally pushing the manager's button. Again.

"Today, I fix them. Tomorrow, I own them.", twenty-two year old Stan Granville said to himself, clocking in for his seven hours of gears and grime. His favorite minute was near the end, with nostrils full of pleasantly scented hand de-greaser, interlacing the goopy stuff thru his fingers before rinsing off the shift. Soon, Stan would be home, his aging Ford knew the way.

Sandra had enough friends. But, an only child- with some feelings about that a little tangled- she occasionally daydreamed about a younger sibling she didn't like, so then it wouldn't hurt much. Of course, that never worked.

Privately courageous, yet routine to him, radiantly enthusiastic Calvin was probably the most positive child in his fifth grade class, a leader who everyone truly liked. While his teacher knew-and was helping to soon change- no one suspected Calvin was homeless.  

Several mornings lately, Victoria has awakened with the strange sense she has been dreaming someone else's dreams, while her own are missing.

"Dad, will I be smarter than you?" "No. As your son won't be smarter." "Will I be better than you?" "Yes, my wonderful boy, in every way!" Those who understand are wise and blessed beyond their generations.

The fair sister and competitive sister never minded being twins. They both agreed it's useful, even fun. But, both always kind of scoffed at the overblown claims made about twins. They were okay being different from each other in whatever the subject, while their differences seemed to bother others sometimes. Folks have these expectations without thinking. The fair sister loved her twin. She understood her sometimes intense feelings about being so competitive. That's why the family's annual cooking games didn't mean much. Fun, that's all, the fair sister thought. The competitive sister loved her twin. She understood her sometimes intense feelings about being fair. But, their family cooking games meant very much. Something else to win, the competitive sister thought. Their head-to-head match involved making the same pie, exact same ingredients. So, it was more a contest of technical expertise, with the family judging who's pie is best. This year: it's C...

Little left to save when you come to the end enough gone to erosion or theft hearts ransacked promises mocked trust lost beyond hope time spent little left to save now.

The science teacher had his students right where he wanted them: imagining. "How far is far? How vast is vast?  Imagine a tiny bucket, and an ocean's volume. Our limited mechanical brains cannot easily embrace the mysterious structural dimensions of an illusively understood, ever-expanding Universe." "Generate a beam of light. Now quick, jump on top and ride it, 186,282 miles per second, for every minute, hour, day, week, month, of an entire year. You've now travelled 5.88 TRILLION miles. In other words, only ONE light-year." The teacher passionately continued, "The human mind cannot easily grasp or conceptualize supreme distances of space and time. Existence is literally more vast than our capacity for its comprehension. This fact alone invites an enlightened perspective, a keener appreciation of the maybe arbitrary and lucky phenomenon of our being." The teacher concludes his talk, "And, these dwarfing wonders, please consider, evoke...

Much of this life seems to be the dark matter, a vast, nebulous unknowable, we cannot see it with our gray matter, nothing personal, just requires other hardware, we're not there, but will be.

Gregory heard his cell go off, then he remembered. A dozen times he forgot to cancel that 5:30am alarm. Maybe he just didn't want to. He hasn't worked for several months. That's starting to feel like a past life now, Gregory thought, not crazy happy with another day of nothing to do besides check the mail.  Outside, he pulled the requisite pound of daily crap out of his box, and gazed up the street to the corner. Gregory saw a trench-coated man sitting on the old bus bench. This was odd to Gregory because, at 10am, it was already up to 80 degrees, and, the old bus line ended two years ago. Curious, Gregory walked over to the corner. Closer, he was surprised by long, black hair, a woman, staring straight ahead. "Excuse me," Gregory began. "Yes. I know. Cancelled.", she replied, calmly anticipating his question. Long, uneasy silence. He started again, "You're not.." "Not from around here, no." Again, she guessed right and answered q...

Uncle Theo went on with his dinner table speech as if someone listened. "Sure as heck old enough now to say it, but back in our day, beauty parlors and barber shops were more than just a business. It was a place in town to be for awhile, see friends and neighbors, talk, pass some time. You see, these were social businesses, like the grocery market. You're not in any big hurry to squeeze the tomatoes." Uncle Theo concluded. No applause from the chattering, distracted table, but one little lad sitting low in his big seat apparently was listening. "But, now the tomatoes get delivered!" Uncle Theo just sighed, and nodded.

A final destination unnamed. A secret guarding its own secret. A memory kept in a locked jewel box. A loss leaving a cavernous absense. A love ignoring reasoned passion. A question answered by a riddle. A dream that dreams itself awake. A hope that works for its strength. A life steered by unsettled stars. A final destination unnamed.

How many times you knew you were on the wrong train? How many times when your window had a face? How many times you only thought you were alone?