Sol's Random Stories

1833, November 12, an ordinary Tuesday for most, but sadly not for Andrew Hawthorne, in the hospital, likely his very last night in this world. The unsparing disease had progressed very quickly, the medicine just wasn't working. He knew full well that the end was at hand, while drifting in and out of consciousness, at least in no pain. Andrew was at the end of his days on this earth, and was grateful for his family who came to be with him at dusk. The final evening was peaceful. Then, at around midnight, everything exploded into noise and commotion outside, with many people suddenly in the streets, some shouting, or running. While Andrew slept soundly, his family rushed to the hospital room's window, and were frozen with astonishment. From the night sky came down a thousand stars, falling as if from a giant pitcher from Heaven! Folks poured out of their homes gazing skyward, as flints of light descended and disappeared in glorious splendor, a cascade of falling stars for the ag...

We're tempted to say the dawn came reluctantly that certain day, but that's merely more of our reflexive, dogmatic, and quaintly indefatigable projecting. Nothing more. The obscurely unremarkable star we call the sun doesn't 'feel' as is our experience, yet we would put our humanness on all that we need to draw more near or find more relevant. Miriam knew all of this, they're hardly new insights, nor was her realization that another Thursday too much like the last had begun. Staring blankly into her small closet, whether she wears this or she wears that doesn't matter to her at all-- just another annoying decision to make. Always neat and presentable, she steps outside squinting at the morning light. But she wants to keep her eyes tightly closed, just forget the zero job, forget the world, then step back inside to hide away for a day, a year, maybe longer.  Until Miriam can recall how to start over.

Darrel Johann, tennis trainer by day, astrophysics student every other waking hour, bides his time, enduring an impossible schedule with little room left for any life. Yet, his studies take him to the edges of existance, and playing around with persistant mystery is what others call research- but he loves every puzzling second of it.  Finding himself embedded in a transparent fabric of universe that presents a sacred geometry of purpose, Johann stares deeply into the stars most nights, drawing out his own personal constellations of inquiry, creating his own conundrums of myth. Johann teaches tennis, a sport of angles, and velocity checked by distance, inertia and reaction. Plus, precise timing by the eye's call, which gives him an inner chuckle, since scientist Johann knows there's really no time at all.

But, there is lots of speculation. Some say Miss Keys the cat found God, praising Hallelujah! with abandon. Others surmise she is guilty of something, surrendered to you in full cuteness as her only defense. Still others guess she must've seen too many Bruce Lee movies, her striking pose ready to one-inch punch some mousy assailant.  Her dad Harold just chuckles every time and says, "It's that damn catnip!" But this feline dancer knows they're all off the mark, none of their theories have a clue. So easy to overthink anything, but what's a girl to do? When you're that disco diva throwing your paws in the air, like you just don't care!  

Rick woke up yesterday upset, sweating, he couldn't recall anything, but it felt like some dream had just played out, or some sound outside had jarred an image into a small panic.  Lately, Rick sometimes felt as if his most basic life force was slipping away. It felt like his chest slightly caving in, his breath shallow and labored, and then aching limbs.  Weak and nauseous, he knew something was wrong, but Rick tried to stay calm, drawing in the stale apartment air more slowly, concentrating on breath alone, his head spinning in a weird, semi-frozen motion. Was it his heart? Again? Rick recalled his upcoming appointment, a new Kaiser MD. He'll talk about his meds like the last MD, four minutes or so, order some new blood work, then see ya later, off to the next patient waiting thirty minutes, it's a long day.  The moments passed and his mental fog lifted, Rick felt the knot of ache in his stomach relaxing and disappear, the sickness also gone. Still weak, he decided bed ...

The boy nearly bellowed the words again, louder this time. "Where the f- are the scissors, dad? I need them now, I'm running late! You can't find anything in this goddamn house!" "No, that would be your room, son, try opening the cupboard above the sink, and then look straight ahead. You see I'm on the phone, and you're language is horrible." The teen wasn't satisfied. He then comes barreling down the stairs, his long, bony legs tangling so that he has to grab the rail. "Why can't you just tell them to hold on? Can you do that, dad? And help me look? The Lyft is coming right now! Scissors!" The boy's dad felt a moment of deep sadness, like his heart sinking.  Like when you feel as if you have failed. He got off the phone and tried to talk to his son about his blindspot of entitlement, and his rudeness, but it was no use, front door slamming, he was already gone.

"So then, where is my knife block, and my folding chairs, there was a set of six, remember?" His wife kept asking. "You don't know, Jack? You're the one who did all this, and decided where everything went." "You mean the house renovation? Getting everything organized? Making the place normal instead of the prior endless chaos? I didn't get much help." Jack seldom speaks, this was a lot. She just stared at him, hardly tempering her contempt- this is how it's been, too long now, neither try anymore to hide the daily scorn. "Those were things of mine. My aunt Aida gave me that knife block." She was enjoying it now. But, Jack was actually lying. He was pretty sure he took those things out to the alley awhile back, and other junk that was on the patio for maybe years. He just didn't want to hear it. They're gone; he wanted to be gone, too.

They all thought he had gone mad. Not unusual, folks lost their mind every day over nothing, or everything, the pressures were great, survival was a privilege. Fear ruled across the land, mindless and pervasive, folks destroyed themselves, and turned away from the righteous ways.  They mocked him day and night, told funny stories about him, how driven he was, how focused beyond anyone's trying to reason with him, talk to him, and help him with his demons. Some feared him, others thought he was a harmless fool. But Noah just knew he had to finish what he started. He got the message directly from God. He understood the assignment. And, he saw the sky. Noah knew his doomed critics would soon perish in depths of absolute horror and destruction.

Huh? Entitled? Me? Not really, not when you've always deserved it. Yeah sure, I've heard them all by now, the silly nicknames for my game. Pensioner Pooch, Dowry Dog, Will Wagger, all the jealous losers can go cry in their kibble, what do I care? You'd think I kicked the Old Man's bucket myself, but I had nothing to do with his party life- I didn't even like the mean SOB. But, he sure was generous after the fact, who would have guessed it! So, they can judge me, and I'm still at the matinee show, popping my yummy Jordan Almonds. Can't tell me I'm not living that lucky filet mignon life! Now, sit yourself down over there, and stop all that hard staring, boy! It's rude!

"Be the expert of yourself." The professor always said the five words slowly, each measured by a thoughtful pause. She made the point often, like a defiant lesson for life. Ignore it at your peril was what the tenured  philosophy professor meant. Bernard recalled the statement. He remembered how dreary and cumbersome college became, and his life sunk to a busy depression of classes, study, and disinterest. Family would have to understand at their own pace, or not at all. Bernard knew he made the right decision, with a lifetime to collect degrees and careers.  This just wasn't his time to sit in classrooms of restlessness and marginal passion--instead, he had to go where his mind pointed, no matter the destinations unknown.

After all, it was a good gig. Bear was happy to stick around, so long as the tourists kept coming up to him, and he's not chased off the campground by the hat guys.  Bear has been here since last summer, wandering out of the wild one day, too hungry to care about roaming far from his hill cave, and too close to the human types. But, bear knew one thing--they had food! Lots of it, and all he had to do was learn to lay about, looking harmless.  Not a slam-dunk assignment when you're almost eight feet big, but sprawled out on park benches helps to look smaller, and quite innocent. It's a living, bear mused, and it beats foraging about in the forest for boring berries and such. Bear is lucky, and variety, much better.

It's been forty-eight long years. With only a still reflection for sad companion, the tree longed for company of kind, and nothing the lake could do would console its heartbreak and sense of isolation.

He knew it was the last dusk he would see, and a grand one it was. He slowly turned his head to see every part of it, his very last sky, drawing it all in with a full breath. He knew that morning. The weakness was too much, the nausea, pushing the tray of eggs and fruit aside. The idea of eating seemed irrelevant now; neither did he have thirst. Purging death, a final fasting, the soul will suffice.  "A single sky may span a whole lifetime!", he said out loud, as the clouds of decades passed in order. It wasn't at all the doom or abject aloneness he had dreaded. Dusk took its time till he had his peace.

There once was a door that one day simply appeared in the countryside. Apparently, this door led to nowhere at all, or, that's how it looked. After many generations all knew of it, not that anyone really knew much about the door, although many feigned knowing. Strange stories were conjured up.  Some thought the devil brought it. Finally, after many decades of gossip and rumors, the townsfolk grew very upset over it, this door. So, town officials held meetings. Some folks shouted out, saying the offensive door should just be destroyed. Others said leave it as a stark symbol of evil, something to scare us into behaving as we should, but too often don't. Soon, factions with opposing views actually raged and fought over what to do about their cursed portal to hell. It was soon after the fighting that people became so frightened about the door and its intentions, that some families actually packed up and moved far away. Others followed, then more left the small town, never to return...

All the colors had heard of the rumor, that a secret color existed. The primaries wouldn't discuss it. All three refused to acknowledge the notion, although enduring, and assumed it was just a fairy tale handed down to tease a young one's curiosity.  But, some of the colors had their quiet opinions about it being true.  Orange took a philosophical view, asking whether or not the secret color could join the established spectrum. Purple was excited about it, while pink was cautious. Grey felt ambivalent, or somewhat annoyed that the alluring subject never vanished from history.  Non-colors black and white agreed, it's odd that some color would be secret, not wanting to be seen or proven beyond some claim of exclusivity, how vain is that? Magenta thought the colors were fearing for no reason. What could be bad about a new color, what's really the matter with the others? Would the secret color like them? Was that what they truly feared? Others were reluctant to share their ...

The old pals were well into their second draft and bowl of pretzels, Mom's was an odd pub at 12pm. Maybe true for all taverns that open so early, an opposite vibe that's more cathedral than jovial, quiet and reflective recalling the evening's frolics, what's known, what's said to have happened. Stale tobacco and bleached air, the empty cavern is cool, dark, and protected from the rush of bright traffic outside, far away.  "We had the last best childhood out here, you know? Play outside till after dark, endless summer, nickel ice cream cones, no worry. Then it went to crap."  His buddy said nothing in reply, only nodding slowly, then taking a long draw from the chilled mug. Worlds long gone, never to return.

Walter woke up angry, this topic had taken over his mind, yet he continued to consider the angles. Last night, deep in Scripture, Isaiah, Corinthians, also some Proverbs, he must have fallen into a sleep of frustration and unsettled longing.  Walter didn't like that he doubted so much of what others believed. But, his doubts are refueled each day with new horrors in headlines, more reasons to painfully wonder why a Creator would allow such brutally random suffering of innocents, defying the notions of an ethical structure in control of the universe, and mocking the implied physics of moral justice.  Walter sometimes even wonders if evil's instant face laughs at the nostalgic myth of God being in charge of good and bad. Where is this true, Walter asks? When the harsh, senseless chance of sudden and irreversible tragedy or loss falls upon the virtuous family, where are God's protective scales of fairness?  Sure enough, bad happens to good for no reason every moment all arou...

There came a certain unassuming afternoon when Hawk and Crow showed up together in the same backyard. A very unusual occurrence, because the two are both so wary of, uh, 'different' company. After some tense silence, Hawk spoke first. "So you like this yard, so do I!", the brash Hawk always led with his prideful ego. Crow, feeling more cautious, simply remained still. As he tracked Hawk with one eye, the other searched about for some lunch. "No need for you to stay", Hawk continued, "I'm here for the rest of the afternoon!"  Crow was already getting annoyed, feeling like Hawk was trying to take advantage of him. "What makes you so special?", Crow asks, trying hard to sound tough. "Why, it's my strength and courage! You see I'm Hawk, right?" He stared at Crow sideways, hoping that would be enough to shoo him off, but Crow stared back, squaring his jaw for a likely fight he didn't even want to avoid now. After all,...

Everett finally did remember what he wanted to tell his wife, the begonias on the side of the garage, how they didn't get the good light for long enough, plus the old peach tree also didn't help. And, how he would replant the dormant flowers to the other side where they'd thrive and bloom again, but it was too late. She was gone.  

The moments of deep memory bubble up on their own, like with childhood experiences. Most of the time we're not aware of what preceding thoughts bridge back to the recollection, or why.  Remember mercury? We had no good sense as kids back in the late fifties, and lots of free time. Of course, intentionally breaking a thermometer felt wrong to do, so a moment of  conscience tried to derail the idea. But the attributes of the element were way too alluring for a boy who imagined it was something magical from wild outer space.  A metallic liquid that formed into little droplets, we mindlessly rolled the mercury around in our palms, fascinated by its bizarre nature. We were totally oblivious to any risks of toxic exposure, it was a quick toy, temporary and taboo. Mom never knew why her thermometers vanished, as childhood, too, disappears with no notice, perhaps only a bit more circumspect caution, and a bit more common sense.

You start thinking that the universe is against you, which of course makes no sense at all. Against you being happy. Having anything. Feeling normal. You start to think it doesn't matter what you do or don't do, the writing is on the wall, sky, cosmos- it knows you. No matter where you go, love ditches you without remorse. No matter what you try, there's the gloom from beneath the sleepless bed, it arises with you into the next dead morning. Meanwhile, others pray for another day, so add your shame to the list of ways you're not okay, no one at all is counting.

Julian cracked open the cookie, eager to read the note tucked inside. Could there be any real connection between a cookie maker's random note and Julian's fate? Who knows? He knows it is a strange universe, so anything is possible. Julian uncurls the small paper, its anticipated message printed on one side, with a mysterious row of numbers on the other. "You will be satisfied with your destination." Not bad, yet not what restless Julian needed.

Looking backwards into the eyepiece, telescope flipped, there were things to go thru when I was thirty, forty--times when I felt like I was seventy. Now, I am nearly seventy, and I most often feel like I'm forty. You see how this whole age thing is meaningless, or worse? Don't care how old you are, that's the way. More important how many cool naps you take.

They were quickly babbling off into another Crossfire episode, Nate and Leo edition. The dark but friendly tension building in their words, their topics ramping up. "So, where then do you want to resume your point, at the very end of your argument? I can wait.", Leo said with obvious sarcasm. "No, of course not, that would be rude; and no one's arguing, yet. In the middle of my point, more or less. Yes, so from there I'll continue." Nate took his moment for effect. "The  issue is about something and nothing, how could the former spring from the latter, which you doubt, etc, yes? So, the entire premise already assumes much not in evidence. Something from nothing, and nothing from something, is that really our choice, or an illusion?" Leo's eyes nearly moan as they roll with affected reaction, this is where it always goes, he mused, eager to interrupt Nate. It's like a script of sorts, a play. This has gone on for sixty years, since they were...

Frank, 30, was a fastidious man. He would firstly describe himself as precise. Exactness was a rule in his disciplined, worldly view, virtue above all. With his custom shirts just so, and his slacks so sharply creased, he had little time or patience for lazy self-controllers lacking will, or any knowledge of its core value. He liked his life just as it should be, everything orderly, what he expected, with no surprises, drama, or reverie.  Then, one seemingly ordinary morning, every single thing he ever thought he knew just blew up into a million meaningless pieces, all at once, leaving him breathless, silly, somewhere new and unknown-- the day he met an emo girl, Pauli.  

No, of course I understand, it hasn't been a perfect life. Sure, I'm as flawed as any Violet- Backed Starling could be. We're only birds, I've made mistakes, we both have. So then, what about that four-day cruise, huh? Mexico? Second honeymoon?  

"The colder the room, the more likely you'll have a bad dream." Lourdes sat up and shivered a convulsion of dawn chill, her arms seemingly dead, her blood still. Where did she read that quote? The foggy thoughts took time lifting, she couldn't recall where, it's a silly quote anyway. Lourdes has no dreams, as was her personal habit, instead pure imageless sleep. Or, so she has chosen to believe. Yet the vast and complex cosmos of the brain has its own order, its own programs to run. In fact, it's always dreaming every hour awake or not, as every dream is a forgettable room, how many we roam straight thru yet never remember in some utterly unaware slumber. The cold fact is we're not in control of anything awake or not, but something is directing this old universe to expand away from itself as it does, and with ever increasing haste, how can it be, this notion of forever, endlessly? Lourdes likes it just fine so cold, doesn't think about questions unaske...

He adjusted his collar without thinking. He knew one thing for certain: he felt frustrated in nearly every part of his life. Cornered by details, trapped both by his own tortured fears and circumstance. He was in full turmoil, and felt too weak to fight it alone, although he knew that wasn't true, just a mirage of dysfunction. During the day, he was exhausted. At night., he lay awake, unable to sleep. How many years have passed? So many twists and traps, he's made so little progress, still enslaved by his own quiet terror. Then, he reflexively glanced at the clock, 5:45, much later than he thought. The morning was striding forward, he had to quickly prepare. At 6am, his early risers would arrive, unpacking their burdens and expectations. Soon, Father Wills would begin another day of services and prayers. 

Light sleeper, a hummingbird hovering outside could wake her, often before dawn, before the coldest wind comes under the door and the dog shudders, before dreams have run out to the horizon as streams of light to become a grandly silent sun. Sightless, she must imagine the bright only from how warm it feels, radiating thru the morning's opaque window.

Let's not argue anymore today. We'll pretend that you're right. Remember, Constance, we're proud Crested Owls. That's why I, Rupert, chose you to choose me! Our folks are glad about it! Birds of a feather, and all that.  

John reluctantly opened only one eye, still clasping a last shard of dream, and there was his cat, sitting straight up and impatient. You have to understand, John truly loved their cat. She was literally all he got in his recent divorce.  Somehow, the savvy feline knew she was sticking around by lucky legal decree, acting even more beligerant and entitled. The cat liked her cozy apartment, and didn't miss his horrible ex one bit. John, however, did miss his former wife very much Tracking her Facebook posts from a Jamaican jaunt with the latest boyfriend didn't help.  John longed for her return, yet he never really had her love. Everyone else knew she couldn't wait to go, lingering on month after month only for John's net worth to grow.  He certainly knew how to provide, but didn't know when it became his prison. But, now he's free, yet only to be sad, miserable, lonely.  

His dog Watson understood his lifelong interest in the famous Sir Conan Doyle character, and how much his master valued the enduring legend of the greatest detective to stroll the foggy London shadows. Every time they adventured out together, looking for imaginary crimes to solve, his loyal hound was eager to play along.

Dreams within dreams, realms of reality in between- who can be very certain about anything? Were you dreaming yesterday, waiting for the light to change? Or, are you dreaming now, somehow driving while you sleep? Because, all's possible in dream, all physics suspended as needed, all rules duly upended.  Even the air itself questions you, drawing in breath cool to warm, nothing is the same as before. You think you're lost between the seams where no one sees. But, your soul's GPS still tracks by satellite, there's no escaping this deal now, and no need to.  Remember that you've done nothing wrong. So, you can always start up again in the very next dream, next realm, next drive to some cloudless nowhere that only vanishes anyway upon arrival- is this quaint idea of consciousness only then a parade of moments? Is there, after all, no last answer that explains the first question? No resolution to this worldly trance of wakeful embrace? Nothing? No trace of a solution any...