Sol's Random Stories

Well known by nearly everyone in the river valley, Elie Moon was very active, seeing many folks per day. Elie was a fine healer, and part-time forest fairy, often found among the lush folds of flora and secret critter spaces, where smallness is a desirable attribute, and harmony of nature, the daylong song. For decades friends, neighbors, even strangers came to Elie Moon looking for relief. She healed with her kind words, rare herbs, and her hugs, long, medicinal hugs when the healing powers are re-absorbed. But then, a scourge of pain began to overshadow Elie's typical joy. Too many toddlers hoisted to her shoulders over the years. All the valley's doctors argued over her worsening state. They debated the best course, but Elie distrusted their certainty. She realized her own healing must be whole, self-generated- doctors only know what they know, or guess. But, Elie Moon needed something she'd not named or yet identified. Her own herbs had helped, but the pain persist...

As always, Pat listened patiently to her elderly eccentric neighbor.  "You know why? I don't. Measure our life by birthdays. Makes no sense when you're nearly a year old after getting born. Right? I count by summers. Eight-nine summers! Anyway, thanks for the cake, and happy birthday, dear." That was the last slice to deliver to neighbors, as she walked back to her Craftsman-style bungalow, completing her own annual task. That's who Pat has always been. Her birthday comes around, she's up the night before baking a cake for others. Always her best gift. But now, her thoughts turned to a certain long-tailed backyard resident, also having a birthday. Soon, her old buddy squirrel scooted across the wooden fence, looking for her. Pat placed some cake crumbs nearby, but the critter wasn't at all interested. But then the squirrel's tail stood straight up at the sight of the shelled nuts Pat pulled out of her pocket. Her special day had started well. ...

 Marjorie closed the family photo album and went back inside. Winter stepped into the evening all at once with sharply cold air, and a light tinge of frost crystal. She thought of the last year, the roller coaster of dread and hope. The tranquil, nearly blissful end. Alone now, she resisted the urge to feel wronged, cheated by fate. They did indeed have twenty long years together that were perfectly happy, fulfilling beyond their best dreams. Then, the unexpected diagnosis, the rapid onset and decline- a year, then he was gone. Since she was a little girl, then throughout her life, and mixed luck with relationships, Marjorie wanted only one thing: to know just one true love, one kindred soul, joined spirit of sacred bond. Just one precious, joyous rose.

The past must work its way thru. So, your sidewalk shadows will not endure, there's clarity ahead.

2031, after a decade of the whole world adjusting to the shocking and cataclysmic event, folks have relaxed enough to accept a new reality, even starting to enjoy the no longer frightening sight.  Yet, despite all the scientists' tireless efforts of investigation, no one knows how the planet Saturn and our Moon exchanged their celestial places, or why.

"And they called it puppy love Oh, I guess they'll never know How a young heart really feels And why I love her so"

No majesty of expansive tones, or splendor of artist's pallet, no splay of crimson purple orange. Just a dreary blue-grey hue, the sun appearing smaller, setting faster on Mars, hustled under the horizon in a rude bum's rush. The bleak Red Planet dusk suggests that no life has ever witnessed the uninspiring show.

The divinely unexpected charge, known in the moment, grace: neither by good acts nor faith- only receive.

The repeating themes and patterns, the seeming repetition, but that's illusory. Everywhere, signs of the same sun. The ubiquitous fingerprint of nature.

Light years away from the forest now. But, what can I possibly find here?

Freedom or censor? Liberty or tyranny? Sunrise or sunset?

The month of furious Hell arrived, driven nations continued bloody war, while the whole world lit up in a final glow of flaming horizons- behold the pyre of humankind.

"What? I just told him two's company, etc."

Always the free spirit, Howard was not one to follow crowds or trends.

Left near an unnamed star at the far edge of space, unreported missing, waiting to be rescued yet no one is searching, your marooned and exhausted heart.

There comes a day you have to ask yourself the hard questions. What's the point of this life? Not all sun baths and buzzy flies. Sometimes, you gotta bust out. Your way, but shake it up, hop off that cozy lilly pad, all your favorite comfort zones are overrated.

Do we know it is spring? Did we miss a sign this time, emerging from pandemic of fear? Do I remember not being afraid? Didn't seasons change as before? So many left us thru this long winter, families crushed with loss, thrust into a new year, nothing waits or pauses, a sky of tears fall upon petals of those who have gone. But, do we know it is spring?

You are here in the light for a moment, the rest is illusion, the persuasive phenomenon of time. The moment stretches across years, decades of distinct days. Everyone is faked out by the slow physics of the present, you're not alone, mass maya is ubiquitous. You're a wisp of fragile existence, from womb born to airborne, thru random hours  of grief and mirth, one wind gust back to the earth.

Great! Damn GPS.

Dijeron que espera aquí. El autobús para el norte

The Great Designer's name remains unknown. Who thinks about being microspecks of nothing in forgotten corners of a vast common galaxy? A determined astrophotographer, employing extraordinary skill and patience, took twelve years to create an image of the Milky Way, including our sun's imperceptible presence, lost in the prisms of a 100 billion stars. The heavenly bodies, a trillion more like the Milky Way, dwarf down our mundanely mortal importance to nearly invisible status, nano-quark of creation. How we choose to believe we're necessary to anything besides our own and each others lives- otherwise, who arises with the sun to carry on?

Your life as a field rodent is basic. There's fear, there's food. There's the requisite instinct to use your smallness to hide during the day, until the dark protects you again. Everything is stronger than you, ahead of you in order and importance, and you defer to the desires of others every time. Unless, in your life you are Mighty Mouse!

"Okay, what? You don't put half and half in your coffee, you put in quarter and quarter? Come on dude, life's too short! Live it up!" Raymond felt like he'd had this same conversation with his brother a hundred times. "You don't have a heart thing. So, easy breezy for you." Raymond knew his defense wouldn't discourage his younger sibling, it never did. "You don't have a 'heart thing' either, bro!" Harlan was in full denial, and probably didn't care. It's simply what he needed to do. Everyone handles loss differently. Neither brother was ready to lose their dad last year, when a routine appendectomy went very wrong. Somehow, their quietly strong mother kept them all together. Harlan cannot acknowledge his older brother's serious but managed heart condition, and both understand why. It goes unspoken, but the fear is named.  

The lunchtime food court table wasn't typical, shared seating, and a clear view of everyone's selections. It was 1972 in Los Angeles, both malls with food courts and sushi were new. A guy sits down across from Rodger with a plate of fish on rice, ginger, wasabi, chopsticks in paper wrapper. Wasn't much food, Rodger noted, as the man drizzled a packet of soy sauce. Rodger, always the annoying type who had no sense whatsoever of appropriateness or decorum, blurts out, "You don't worry about that?" The man stares, but doesn't reply. "Raw fish? I mean, the bacteria?", Rodger continued, blithely unaware of his intrusion. The other guy smiles, looks at Rodger's salad. "And you? You don't worry about eating something named after a murderous Roman dictator who thought himself a god?" Rodger looked down at his lunch. He knew he should have gotten the Cobb.

Two hours now. No one is coming. Where is my family?

Hasina is often asked how she likes Lyft driving, or, what she dislikes. She keeps her answers generic. Americans are easily offended over their culture. There is no way Hasina could share how- being devoutly Muslim- she's embarrassed by disgusting language she must endure.  

It's not fair. I can hear my friends outside. I'm grounded for talking back to mama. I said I was sorry!

"So, Lu Chan, you're an inventor."

I gave up on the city. The pace kills you. Rents, the commute, what's the point? That's not living. I'm back home now for good. Besides, these days you can trade options from any zip code.

Neither red squirrel could recall how the competition began, and you can't really say it was a feud. When they played together as lads, it became important to crown which tail-boy was nicer. Yes, it was a peculiar challenge, as each tried to top the other's generosity. First, they exchanged favorite squirrel toys, and the match eventually continued into adulthood. Then, it became increasing hoards of pine and fir nuts, seeds, flower buds, tender stalks and such exchanged. The two squirrels took turns gifting each other with various found treasures until they were actually exhausted. But still, each squirrel desperately wanted to appear more nice, and be known as the very nicest of all. Things got frenzied, then out of control, they both were locked and resolute in their obsession. Also, it became bad drama for the forest village. That's the moment when old Great Owl intervened. Swooping down from a tall elm, the imposing elder landed on a big rock. "Of course, ...

Oliver Olsen disliked the family story more than any other, but his loud and callous mother told it often to company. How one day toddler Oliver had stepped on a live wire, "He popped up into the air like a cat saw a dog's ghost!" His mother was amusing like that at someone's expense, but she wouldn't be amused with the rest of the story that she didn't know. Ever since that accident, Oliver began to hear sounds at different frequencies and distances. He told no one about his new ability because he was certain that would be a disastrous mistake. So, over the years, he heard everyone's whispered secrets, private words, and sometimes even others' thoughts. He heard how casually phony people were, the lies they told each other. Oliver heard too much, it was a curse, or a painful affliction.  That's really why, wherever you saw Oliver, he always had his headphones on.

Yeah, okay, Bruno Mars, I see that.

Most grateful for his blessed life, Enrique adored his wife and family, and feared straying from God's Holy Commandments. The alcoholic widow who employed him as her estate groundskeeper was getting too friendly, and Enrique felt embarrassed by her flirtatious attention. He needed to safely discourage her. The next day, while Enrique was digging a hole for a new tree, his boss approached. "Wow, look how fast you are. And, so strong!" She stood to the side as Enrique  stopped digging, then he leaned on his shovel for a quick break. "Thank you, I'm doing okay, all things considered. Still not the same after the operations." "Operations?", that got the widow's attention. "What happened to you?" '"Oh, it's years ago now. Bad car accident." Enrique pointedly stared down to his groin. "They had to put me back together like a Lego set with missing pieces.", he chuckled, having some fun now. "Oh. Bu...

Years passed in the background as a quiet afterthought, while day to day, the illusion of time was dominant, life's sundry details filled the unconscious hours and months. His child grew up, moved out. His wife became distant long ago, left to live with a relative, amicable divorce pending. Ending up alone in the home his son grew up in, Jonathan's singular role of provider had abruptly ended. No one asked about his plans, no one wanted to know. A man's anguish can be a slick and silent sleight of hand. Took twenty years, suddenly there's just a cat who needs only food, and to be left alone by a window.

Sometimes, what remains are shards of feeling: you're sad, you see your frown without a mirror, someone familiar cries nearby. Everyone in your dream is you.

No matter how hard you look for it, or how often you imagine finding it, savoring the random or well-crafted chance to exact some sweet karma justice: bitter, toxic berry of revenge.

It was horrible. It made no sense. A month ago now, and I can't stop thinking about it. I will never understand. Mom was dying, they wouldn't let me in to hold her hand.  

Where unshareable secrets hang, cloaked in hushed solitude. Some things, no one should ever know- revealing isn't always good. Some random stories are best untold.

Okay, but this is the last ride for today, you're getting heavy!

There is no recorded history. There's no evidence beyond some spare clues and mystery. Some believe in the earliest time all creatures were stone. They didn't move, and crumbled back to dust over a thousand milleniums.

It was odd seeing a phone booth anywhere, but there it was, lit up. Ranna couldn't resist stepping in. The light blinked off as the door slid closed, it was pitch black. Ranna tried the door. Not locked. Turning around, she saw a luminescent card taped to the glass. Words glowing, it said "You will receive a call from God." Suddenly, the phone rang with a jarring shout, far too loud. Ranna jumped, quickly composed herself, but then just let it ring again and again. So then, what does God sound like, she wondered. And, what would she even say to God? Ranna waited as the phone kept ringing, but now softer, while she concentrated hard to quell her fear. Or, was it really doubt? Finally, sucking in her breath, Ranna took the receiver off its base. She brought the phone up slowly to her ear- but, there was only a low-volume, repeating busy signal. Ranna wasn't surprised. Stepping out, she walked away without looking back. She knew there was no phone booth at all. ...

And, the Ubird app is so convenient.

Of course it's afternoon, the last, longest moments of day when there's nothing left but delusion, hard ground, feeding birds, all else is lost, forgotten, gone away.  

I know, mates for life, yada yada. Don't tell me nothing's changed. You don't laugh at my jokes anymore.

From the outside, all the apartments look the same. Can't tell where the husband just asked his wife for a divorce. Or, which has the senior slipping away, or a child hiding in a closet of tension.

He goes nowhere in particular. Not many know his name, and he won't offer it until asked. Stan is a walker. You see him walking everywhere. You see him again and again, sometimes carrying a big soda cup or water bottle. He never looks bored going by, and always replies cordially. but Stan does not need the light greeting, it just breaks his stride and focus. He just needs to walk, little else.

This is a great job. But now he's getting aggressive, I can feel it. New boss won't be enough for this guy, he's hoping for more. Tomorrow, I make it crystal clear. The chips will fall. There are other great jobs. But, just one dignity.

"I'm flattered, of course. But I'd rather be admired for my mind."

We are ten but once. A boy may think of small things like rocks, stamps and coins, cat's eye marbles. Brand new baby brother. Ladybug on a sleeve. Named star, claimed for keeps. A boy peddles thru the day with baseball card strumming spokes into motorbike sounds, leaning forward over the handle bars, tooling too fast into tomorrow.

Some days, he was inclined to review his Bible on a moment's impulse, turning to a random page. Any place is a good time.