Sol's Random Stories

Sol's Random Stories Stories from random images. solsrandomstories.blogspot.com Sol's Dream Galleries Free association, image, dream stories in real time.  solsdreamgalleries.blogspot.com Sol's Inner Vault Personal thoughts on faith, religion, philosophy, and life.  solsinnervault.blogspot.com Sol's Media Debunk Examining biases and fallacies. solsmediadebunk.blogspot.com

End of this world after a long, lucky life, the last struggles of body, the final moment we're gone, drawn away to the next mystery.

The kids in the building called her birdlady, but it wasn't meant to be rude. Cheerfully eccentric, Lupe loved and tended her bird visitors all day long on her big balcony, with several small baskets of seeds, fruit and nuts. What Lupe's nosey neighbors really wanted to know about was her m ystery boarder, it's been two years now. No one ever sees him come or go, only his sillouette on her shaded kitchen window. Folks speculated he's  ill, or a hermit, or just a loner type who stays home. When they would ask Lupe about her cowboy friend, she would  smile, and tell them he wasn't a cowboy, but he was retired from a long career in law enforcement.

Odd is always a matter of perspective and orientation. But, most of all, odd is a matter of experience. Reba in Unit B didn't dislike her neighbors, or resent talking to them.  When necessary. Daily small talk, however, wasn't her necessity. That's all, nothing more to know. They watched her come and go, mostly at night, switching her patio plants with others in the yard, moving swiftly to avoid any miscellaneous humanity.

Maybe awake, maybe not, maybe those suspended moments in between, before the plunge into earlier depths, seminal ancient stem of the brain's eye taking over, as the long day's trivialities submerge and molt to smaller swaths of color and wordless memory, dropping further down to hypnogogic reveries of influence and impression.  Maybe awake, maybe not, maybe we can never really know which?  Mind travels its neural circuits and pathways beyond our desire's control.

Rhonda sees the creepy guy a moment late as he comes around a parking wall, crazy grinning.  She's trapped, but her savvy action hound isn't having it at all, with this guy approaching. From the backseat, the amazing Harvey leaps out in one move of pure growl, teeth bared for battle, Rhonda's very own super-loyal gladiator and canine of courage. The creep thinks twice about his ambitions, lurches sideways, then bolts down the parking ramp. Harvey protects way above his pay grade, with furious passion, and can bark like dogs many times his size.

Her new assignment was a documentary, not fiction. Only one way to get the real scoop, and the tree's view. So, the brave and determined cat cub reporter somehow managed to embed herself within the raccoon life.

Evelyn and Hal are married for a long time now, she might say a hundred years, he might say a hundred and fifty, but probably would just think it. Never one to parse moments, Evelyn stirred thru the hot  chili, then offered a question: "What's up with the dog's poop lately?" Hal tried to pretend he didn't hear. But as she started again, he warily asked "What do you mean?" "When I take her for a walk , she poops, and it stands straight up. What is that?" Hal wanted to be anywhere else in the universe. "That is great kibble, that's all.", he stands straight up to leave the kitchen fast, clouds looming quickly overhead. "Widgie can do lots of things we can't.", Hal said quietly, but no one heard.

Shiva, creator, destroyer, dispassionate to both, i ndifferent to change, dismissive of time, uncaring of bliss or suffering, moved neither by grace nor evil, galaxies born or crashed together across a cosmos of emptiness, besides a few structures glimmering across imagination, but that doesn't add up, where is everything else that's supposed to be somewhere, lost for now until the next biggest telescope goes online, we'll see farther than ourselves this time, to the edge of all questione, Shiva, creator, destroyer, dispassionate to both .

The sage old parrot passed thru yet another gauntlet of challenge, a brief but intense survival battle. The younger Kea recognized the lack early, his elder having all the experience. A few menacing swoops, some feathers scraped, it was over, for that day at least. A ngling across a darkening New Zealand sky, back down thru the lush valley, the old Kea had already forgotten his aggressor.

More than just ridiculously cute, you could say Rico was a straight up miracle, hard fate's side-wink exception, a long-odds favorite. Found stumbling out of a major forest fire, the singed and dazed lad couldn't even eat for days. Only kind sips of water kept his tiny heart going long enough for hope's self-healing to begin. Just a small second chance that spoiled death cannot touch, Rico will have his good life after all.

It was closer to daybreak,  Jon realized once again that he had been thinking too much. He must write it out once more, last time: "Relax, this note to myself says. I'm in charge of very little, and able to influence less and less. It's really all good, whatever it is,  despite fearful thoughts we have about our own ending . F or prophets and experts,  a hot mess , what's beyond the body's demise, well, it's anyone's artful guess. Let's include nothing is beyond, as that may be part of the mix, an optimistic and hopeful matrix of possibilities, some say imagined. Believers sort out the big issues, questions, and solutions. Faith answers everything for eternity. Those unbelieving feel that if some beyond is a whimsical myth, there will be no one around to care, or know anything is lost. It's really all good, whatever it is." His mind still unsettled yet calmer , Jon thought maybe now he'll sleep.

Car pulls into driveway moment.

"So, these two Scottish lads walk into an Irish pub..."

"Yes, a mammal I am, that's correct. Me, where a mask? Underwater? That's a good one, Dr. Fauci!"

"Thanks, God, for the carrot and the paint job."

The sacred blue waterfall in Madeira is well-hidden, and a tightly kept secret among the townsfolk. They rightly fear the world's instant attention to their protected paradise of legendary healing, and restorative powers. The fall's source lies deep in a nearby granite mountain's core, that too is an unknown location, among vast underground lakes, grotto lagoons, and pitch black caves with timeless streams. The rich luminescent glow even the elders cannot explain, or their ancestors, only gratefully in awe. If you ask nicely and are in need, they'll kindly bring you a cask, so you may feel your soul healed.

The ghostly grey reflection in the water tells the truer story, all color gone from gravity's pull, a certain secret vortex revealed, an exit to another dimension, a portal of unknown destination, appearing for only a hot moment, then gone again for a millennium.

They say it's the last standing phone booth in the entire state. Somehow, it was overlooked as the world moved on to newer wires and cans, and satellites. The company that once owned it no longer exists. City officials have ignored it for years now. Kids use it as a rock target. Drunks use it also in staggered darkness. It stands out during the day, a quaint anomaly, a ghost structure of times gone forever. But, all of that notwithstanding, no one dares get near it, or get more curious about its presence. An ominous mystery the local news doesn't mention, and a town's wary superstition. All its lines fully cut, disconnected from power sources for decades, no one wants to talk about how it simply loudly rings on its own- the 15th of every month at precisely 3:15 in the afternoon, for fifteen long and haunting seconds.