Sol's Random Stories

The kindly Chaplain worked on the next sermon, considering his topic and points.  "Is human sorrow the mortar that bonds one to another? Is our common suffering also our oldest ancestor, holding the mortal family together thru memories of milleniums of tears?"  "As the wise in all cultures have asked, is pain the first parent of our worldly experience? These questions are addressed thru passages found both in earnest, and in anguish, as God's Word never wavers for those souls wounded by loss in their lives. Comfort sought is as near as scripture, never farther than the turned page." The Chaplain thought deeply on the Psalm: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Matthew 5:4. And, he thought of all the different forms of suffering on earth .

Who would think there's any good in getting whacked by an SUV? Maybe good is the wrong word. It was a bad day. Didn't see it coming from my left until too late. Bounced off the front panel, but the angle saved me, it was a bump and graze. Could've been, well, you know. Got knocked out for awhile, don't know how long. It was night. I just layed there then I woke up. Felt okay, wobbly on all four, my head hurt.  Didn't realize anything different until three days later. I was alone in the garage, taking a snooze. Woke up to the sound of talking, but I was still alone, and no one was outside. That's when I realized I could speak. The voice I heard was me, talking in my sleep. To test it, I tried to bark. "Hey!" A word pops out instead. After awhile, it was controllable, I had the choice. That was actually a relief because being a dog, and having no bark- you get it. So, I've had this new ability since my short dance with death, nearly three months. Bef...

The customers in the cable company lobby were stunned, but not alarmed. These were small town folks, slow to stir up. A full-grown steer isn't what you expect to meet at Regency Cable, although the monopoly area provider could sling plenty of its own company BS  The service rate hikes have come fast and hard since the so-called industry de-regulation. Folks were promised lower rates thru competition, exact opposite happened. Now, it's tough luck, you pay the frequent rate hikes, or go find a pricey dish to install, or go back to fifty-cent paperbacks, unconnected. Marilyn Mason, captive customer for the past decade, decided to respond to the last steep rate hike in person. Rural neighbor, Marilyn had a small dairy farm outside of town, remaining prosperous running things solo, after her husband passed three years prior. Marilyn, inspired also by her dear husband's utter contempt for Regency, decided writing letters wasn't enough. So, one extra-fine September morning...

He looked back until the last corner of the cemetary had disappeared. All in the car were silent, sad. The streets seemed to race ahead of the cars. There aren't always good endings. You learn that by fifteen. Harvey learned it. Not that he wanted to. Everyone kept saying God needed his grandpa for a special project. They said it was good it happened while he slept. They said he's in a Better Place, that Harvey's grandpa had lived his full, long life. They say these things, it doesnt help. Harvey just knew his grandpa was his best friend, best listener. Biggest fan. Now he was gone, and Harvey didn't really understand at all. No one does.

Alfredo's parents didn't think there was  any real concern, they just saw him as being different, maybe a bit eccentric. His persona had always been a contrast to his older brothers, more introspective, even more independent. Alfredo loved his parents and brothers, but he too knew how they wondered about him. He didn't mean to be such a mystery. His interests set him apart. His folks recognized a unique perception that often fully absorbed Alfredo's attention. How as a baby he would stare at the sky endlessly, as if he were staring straight out into space, sometimes almost transfixed on some forms of clouds, or an early twilight star. Or, a cable above the boulevard with a chorus line of pidgeons, or a blue-flowered bush radiating butterflies. Even as a baby, Alfredo's habits of observation were intense, concentrated attention to detail, patterns, or sundry symmetries. His folks were always amazed with him. But one thing especially hypnotized Alfredo like nothin...

Go figure. A guy, Chuck, newly retired after 28 years in commercial real estate insurance, starts out with two hives, just as a hobby. Soon, the new beekeeper is giving away jars of honey- each with a nice chunk of honeycomb- to all his neighbors. Next thing, out of his barn, he starts a small business. Next thing, ramping up, he's now selling over 100k worth a month. The biggest funny here- and a deep, dark secret only his trustworthy wife knows, Chuck Daly truthfully can't stand honey, or any sweets. No sweet tooth whatsoever, never did, even as a kid. He's more the sour dill pickle guy. Go figure.

George Dupont had his fill of sanity. He personally wouldn't mind some whisper voices in the walls, or strange faces outside the window, or a creaky attic midnight moan. George was tired of being so alone. How bad could a ghost be? Staring into his Earl Gray, he felt more the tea bag than the man. The knock on the door seemed to snap him to another realm. He absently walked over and opened it. No one there. He peered up and down the quiet street. No one. Suddenly, a voice is heard, coming from nowhere. "May I enter, or not?" George nearly jumped out of his slippers. Looking around again, he saw nothing. What was going on, he frantically wondered. "I'll take your dumbfounded silence as yes, then. Stand aside, please."  George watched in frozen horror as the door opened wider on its own- for some reason, he stepped back inside, as if folllowing the disembodied voice. Closing his door, George spanned his living room, left to right. This is crazy, he thought. ...

Gram was so funny. She'd say, "Be your own cookie!" We'd laugh, we're not cookies! First time she said that was to my older sister, Rhonda. We were all baking together one Saturday. It was raining hard all morning, we couldn't go outside. Rhonda would get upset when the shapes of the cookies came out odd or wrong. It was a big deal to her, then Gram would calm her down. She said they don't taste their shape, and they all taste good. We never at all understood the bigger meaning. About God making us one at a time, no two alike. To just be yourself, that solves most problems, Gram said. "Be your own cookie!"

Jake Walters woke up to yet another pandemic lockdown, thinking: "Okay, think I got it now. Can't go to church, temple, mosque. Can't get a haircut, or a Club Sandwich and Coke at the counter, or even outside. Follow the science, which of course follows the corrupt, power-drunk politicians, who follow secret overseas donors, who own the media, who own the world, and our minds. Understood. So, there's nothing left to do besides get a tattoo, they're open. Then, go for a massage, they're also still open. Then, get a quart of whiskey at the liquor store- they've never closed- drink it all, pass out. More lockdown. Makes sense to me."

Every new day in this life, on this earth, is a miracle beyond all horizons, a dreamscape of sensation with fine mysteries to solve, sunsets to inhale, dawns to meet, the hours of existance passing with elusive pace, a balance of grace of divine homeostasis that gives only hints and intimations of worlds beyond our own, beyond the cage of our senses, beyond the touch of sensory knowing there is a prior knowledge, intrinsically sensed, a single winding strand to follow- to somewhere.

A good idea can't save poor writing. Good writing can't save a poor idea. Both concept and execution must meld into an agreement of result. Critical balance is achieved when forgotten, the pole held, yet no longer needed, the beam wider beneath you, striding straight ahead, eyes forward.

He looked at his face in the mirror, staring for a moment into himself, maybe there's some clue to discover. Then, looking down into the basin, he began washing his hands. The water, sanitizing hot  Disinfecting hot. As hot as he could stand it. Carefully, intertwined fingers slippery with soap, he thoroughly covered every inch of skin. If he was anything, it was thorough, some might say meticulous. Then, more washing, full minute now. He was determined to rinse off every speck and molecule of the last hour. He chuckled softly to himself. Wow. One hour, start to perfect finish. That's all it took to complete the whole task. He thought about what he had done. Did he have to do it? Was there an easier way? Too late to know. Actually, he pondered, it wasn't hard at all. The preparation was simple. The materials needed were all at hand. No extra purchases, no time wasted. The timing, in fact, turned out precisely well. Was it all worth it? He thought so. Now, his wife will ha...

You are fragmented. Shattered. Reassembled. Never like before. It never ends. The erosion of change. Rearrange the features, you'll never get it right. Once you were whole. Smooth. Solid. Then, you loved.  

Even folks who knew him his whole life weren't exactly sure what he did, how Tom Slim always had the cash, the cars, the girls, and he never gave a clue about it himself. Some thought it was the race track. Pick those ponies right, you can parley your play into a nice life of winnings, some would daydream. Others said he knew how to find a sweet deal. Someone needed something, he knew the guy. He got his slice out of everything, they said, no one knew what that even meant. Folks said Tom Slim just knew certain people, and they knew him back- nobody bothered with trusting anyone, better that no one did- it was understood. The smoldering summer nights in New Orleans were just too hot for trusting anything worldly. But, Tom Slim knew without so many words, he had "it", no defining necessary. Keeping the faith all the way back, he was his own made man. No one would ever suspect Tom Slim- actually Thomas Winslow Perkins III- was really a secret pension baby, inheriting a f...

Both right, both wrong, both ridiculous. The two stood in the middle of the street, shouting, arms gesturing wildly. The one man had been sitting in his car, finished a burrito, his daily routine. He tossed the last bite onto the street for the birds to peck up. Then, out of his house across the street, the second man storms, phone in hand, recording the burrito remnant, then the man in his car. The man recording begins to shout, "Don't throw your trash like that in the street!" The first man shouts back from the driver's seat, "Not trash. Food. The birds get it." Mr. videotaper guy ramps up even louder, "No, it's trash! And, what you're doing is bad!" The first man gets out of his car, walks over to the opposite curb, incredulous, making his  case. "What's wrong with you? Stop looking for trouble!", he's also shouting now. Just then, three seagulls swooped down and snapped up most of the food without even landing, the...

Fearfully happy,  Nancy was glad the shaking stopped. That was a long one, she thought. Not severe, no jolts. But long, like the earth's extended grumbling. Nancy looked around her living room. Everything seemed okay, upright, and she saw a wisp of cat tail beneath the couch, good. All accounted for, Nancy exhaled for the first time in two minutes. Kansas-born, these scary quakes were getting old, she thought. Not something she knew. Maybe two years on the left coast was long enough away from home. Nancy thought about her parents' large, ranch-style house, with the huge fields for yards. Plenty of room. She looked all the way down to the sidewalk. Eighteen floors up is a whole different life, a whole different view. Nancy is then startled by the phone's ring. But she remembered, it's probably her mom. She always calls when there's an earthquake, even in other countries, just to make sure Nancy's safe, maybe saw a cable story. But it wasn't her mom calling ...

Harper Jenkins hated to be in such a moment. Cornered. All he could focus on was the slightly shaky barrel that pointed directly at his heart. He was frozen in position, the next moments critical for everyone, and he worried plenty about the very scared, young officer pointing, both hands gripped. There was a moment too long of silence, breathing halted- that was more dangerous. "What do you want me to do?", Jenkins broke the tension. "Drop it! Now! Now!", the cop's voice rang off the walls. "I'm setting it down. It's unloaded. But you still never drop a gun. Never." The whole time he spoke, Jenkins slowly bent his knee, gently placing the empty revolver on the tile floor. He rose back up just as slowly. His mind raced back to the morning. How he had felt so uneasy about pushing his luck one last time. Six straight Merchant Moe's hold-ups. Jenkins hit the grocery chain in five towns, one store twice. Easy, fast, all very near freeways. ...

Dante didn't exactly love his name. Only because it was so unusual, so there were always comments made. There's no further discussion required when you're Jim, Mike, or Bill. He was used to the quips and queries by now. Teachers were the worst. First day of every semester, when they got down to Dante, everyone would then most certainly hear about his most famous namesake, the author and philosopher from the Middle Ages. Dante heard it all ad nauseum, tired of it, that's all. Occasionally, Dante daydreamed about being a Matt, or a David, or Freddie was good. He promised himself he'dd do something about it some day, no offense meant to his mom's uncle who was so named. No big worries. Some things you just live with, like semester first days, Dante thought. Sitting down into the desk chair, he looked around for friends, always better when you go a whole semester with buds in your class. Then, Dante took a folder out of his backpack, setting it down before him. It...

Justin Lucas wasn't getting pushed around by pencil-pushing doofs. One simple, chain link fence. You'd think he was building the Great Wall, or even its minature. The bored county clerk eventually came back, with no expression. "We've looked again, sir, it's not on file." Lukas felt his BP lurch upward again, ears getting warm. Stay calm, he told himself. "Well, you looked. Okay. I didn't imagine it. Filled out the forms right on this counter, six months ago." "You're not in our computer", she blankly said, looking up at the wall clock. "Then, I have to fill them out again." "You can, sir, but it's past deadline for home improvement permit apps. Can't file it until next April." "April, that's swell. This is simply unacceptable. Who else can I speak to?" "The supervisor position hasn't been re-filled yet, Covid. So, no one, sir." Lucas left the permit office thorough...

Once, there was a monkey who really disliked bananas. (You can finish this one, I've got laundry.)

Game-generated, we'll add offscreen some hidden hyenas watching nearby with  little to laugh about. The standoff had lasted two hours now, neither side willing to die or back down. Nature can be a ruthless host, serving up surprise, slow nightmare, oasis, and dust. Maybe doomed, the jaguar just sat atop the ridge of faux-rock, kindly thrust up from the faux-grass. The small crowd of crocodiles had grown larger. They had the jaguar trapped. Or, did they? All felt weak after so long a game, both predators, prey. Coin-toss knows who stays for lunch, who goes.

Barely alive, yet never stronger, holding the vast moon in firm grasp, selfless courage the rarest of gifts, lifting the heaviest weight with hope, eyes steadfast, the prize yet in sight, limbs weakened by many drought years, despite neglect or tears for rain, endure it all to dream again, far above the cloudless air of dawn, barely alive, yet never stronger, holding on.  

Fear no sojourn known or unknown, you cannot wander far from your fate. Worrying over direction won't inform you, if you're lost then it's always been so. There's no arrow sign, wherever we go. They say trust the light between the limbs, that's your lucky path.

Bound by their needs, friendship for keeps. Two older boys, younger men, next-door neighbors since toddlers. Each locks with the other's key. One lad labors both job and school, while  his mom who drinks needs constant care. Between all three, he seldom goes anywhere. The other lad's dad is always working, both single-parent homes on modest means. But, they're all surviving this year, the year from Hell. The two cheer each other up just enough to face their next difficult day; that's plenty. It's a lucky blessing, given life's harsh imperfections. Neither would risk jinxing it with words, but both young men know. Bound by their needs, friendship for keeps.

The fluid synchronicity, love with trust,  enablers both for each others cause,  mutually strengthen a common plan,  lucky the woman, fortunate the man,  two who have found their way home,  understanding found only in bonding  with joined commitments everlasting,  while union with another no requisite  for harmony, certain reciprocity apart  from the tiring routine, those two who  embrace their worlds as if it's all  meant to be irreversibly true.

Covid madness, pick your flavor: nobody agrees on anything; nothing tried has worked; no one has a clue. This morning, two men openly arguing, masks not shielding mutual hostility. Subject of the heated, public dispute? A vaccine. Not yet even approved or available. Mania is a funny bird, fear-prone, the two men stood their ground. "It's not even out yet, you're already thumbs down?", the older one, just aghast. "Maybe. Not in a rush, like they were making it. You can have my place in line.", the younger barely hid his scorn. This madness has divided common from sense, simple from logic, friend from friend, over what? We shuffle thu more fog and mistrust.

He was scared of guns.  Scared of his own gun.  He didn't keep it for self-defense. His gun only held one bullet. There'll be no one there for another.  Last chance to get something right.  What's the point or logic of a full clip?  Scared of his thoughts, their tone.  Maybe it's time to get on the phone?  What would he say, anyway? "I'm having a final kind of day. Calling you for a second opinion?" He chuckled quietly in the dark, gun back in the locked drawer  where it's always been. Tomorrow it starts all over again.

Best thing is, be the first one to get on. When the playground carousel is spinning, some kids will happily grab your arm to hoist you up. While other kids will block your ascent, or push you away, or even smack you coming around. That's the first thing you learn. Later, when you're fully grown, it doesn't change.

At times, curiosity may be a vexation, a force driven by compelling needs often hard to source- a need to know. Meanwhile, someone had to be eight years old, it was Keith's turn, his three older sisters already had theirs. Wasn't so bad, he thought, except a lot you just can't do. You get 'not allowed' a lot at eight, or other versions, they mean the same. Moms and sisters can say no a lot, you'd be surprised. Keith was glad his dad was there to balance it out. His dad knew he could be outnumbered, Keith counted on him. His dad would've understood the crazy curiosity Keith felt when his younger sister brought home the most amazing birthday gift from their Aunt Matilda- a beautiful, vintage musical Merry-go-Round Box. His sister walked in holding it like a large, precious jewel, then placing it down on the coffee table with great care. Keith was instantly mesmerized. The finely crafted detail, the clever design. But most importantly to Keith- how did it work?...

Robert had talked for two hours non-stop, but probably didn't know it was that long, absorbed in his subject. The subject was himself, the only topic Robert ever talked about. Probably didn't realize that also. Jackie Marcos, however, did realize both, growing weary, fighting to stall back a yawn. Robert continued. He always continued. Today, the centerpiece was his mother, a frequent chapter in Robert's never-ending saga of family conspiracy, innocent victim rage, and jealous mistrust. With all his older siblings constantly plotting against him, there was always fresh danger to talk about. Robert kept busy, not only describing these dysfunctional relatives to anyone trapped into listening, but also busy creating them, keeping them all alive. You understand, Robert was an only child, abandoned by his young and selfish parents, then raised by a kindly, disabled aunt; a farm boy until grown. Jackie stood up abruptly from the small kitchen table, she'd had enough. Not only...

When an owner loves his pet, there's no such thing as too much trouble. Julian thought it was a brilliant idea. He had to work longer hours now, start-ups have no schedules, really. Julian's poor dog will be so lonely for hours. This will help both stay totally connected all day, or anytime day or night. Sometimes, technology really was a godsend, and it's all on the app. By phone, Julian is with his dog. Installation was a snap. Four-inch video box with mic, on the side of the dog's little patio house. Then, quick download, set up the app, keep the volume setting low for the neighbors. Everything done, Julian was eager to try out his great idea, taking a quick break, strolling down the noisy office building corridor. He opened the app's screen on his phone which also blinked on the patio home screen. Everything worked well, and there he was, Julian's beagle boy, asleep on his beloved chair pillow.  "Hey boy, here. Look over here! It's me!"  His do...

Imagine you are a common house fly with a twenty-four hour lifespan. Live it up. Imagine you are a potted plant stuck in a highrise lobby. Go outside. Imagine you are an introvert bounding up a down escalator. Find some love. Imagine you went insane quietly in your mind, but everyone acted the same. Welcome. You're here.  

Look at these gorgeous magnolia flowers, how closely they resemble real birds. Akayulan Magnolia. With evolution's genius machine-learning, did this plant, over milleniums, develop an ability to shape-form its own self-defense, to ward off various pesky adversaries? "What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?" William Blake, The Tyger.

Who needs the reminder? At any time in this uncharted expedition, a single moment can sting you into reality. Frank and his dog in their favorite park, walking and sniffing as is the ritual, suddenly came into that moment. On grass, the pooch instantly stopped, raised her right front paw, and looked straight at Frank. Immediately knowing something wasn't right, his alarm only increased as her paw stayed aloft- but, she was silent. No whimper, no yelp. No clue. Frank rushed over and scooped her up, trying at the same time to examine the paw. The dog wouldn't have it, instead twisting about, licking the mystery injury with laser focus. Frank, always the steady ship in crisis, began to have a pre-cardiac. What could he do? He knew something was very wrong with his girl, but what? There was no glass anywhere. Nothing visible in her paw. Then, Frank remembered, their vet's office was only three blocks away. He started walking quickly, glad he had a nine-pound Pomeranian Chihuahu...

When you're nine years old, you don't run out of questions. Good marbles, pumpkin seeds, pocket change you run out of- questions, no. Not John. His patient dad just sighed. He knew what was coming. Young John went on, "So, dad. I still want to know why. Why is the tree called Saint John's Bread? Was it his tree? Trees can't grow bread. Could his?" The questions were humorous, but the lad was so sincerely curious, you respect that. John's dad was about to offer some skeptical reply, when his cell phone rang. John heard his dad talking politics with his friend, at one point saying "Yep, true, they all lie. But, I'll just keep believing it turns out okay." His dad soon hung up, and John came over and stood directly before him, silent. After a few moments his dad asked, "Was there something more, son?" "Yes. You just believe sometimes, right? Even when you don't know." The boy was calmly serious. "Why, yes. Of course....

Pandemic changes, new traditions. Hopefully not permanent, as in permanently damaged, our recently old lifestyles, may they return someday in familiar form. One thing I'm completely certain about: there are too many experts interrupting my day. Too many pundits pondering nonsense, too many media groveling for influence, too many Mr. Know-It-Alls. Pandemic changes, new traditions. 2020, weed is legal. Now I'm looking for an underground haircut.  

Folks were most surprised, many shocked, especially close neighbors. Margie Coleman can't be blamed for how things turned out. She was simply overwhelmed, and wouldn't admit it. Her public demeanor yielded no clue. Lively, personable, Margie knew and greeted everyone she encountered, first, before they could greet her. Someone may think she was running for mayor, Margie was so outgoing. Providence may have sent that poor delivery driver to the wrong address for the right reason. Package in hand, had he not peered thru a window, no one would have ever know. When they finally came for Mr. Holt, Margie's long-time elderly and disabled boarder, he was in pretty bad shape- but recovered quickly in the hospital. Authorities are still investigating the circumstances of Mr. Holt's homecare. Margie Coleman hired an attorney. She can't be judged or blamed, he will earnestly argue on her behalf. She was simply overwhelmed.

He's taken enough. Two years now. This infernal obsession of hers she calls "just a hobby." More home wrecker than hobby, he has accused, jealous of the attention stolen. Now he is forcing the choice. Promises to spend less time with her cameras were broken. He'll not compete with the likes of zoom lenses, and the closed door of a darkroom! Either she returns to mrs. wifey, or- she interrupts, but only to ask: may she snap a last shot when he goes out the door?

One person's junk pile is another's masterpiece of unrealized possibility. On the auction block of ideas reason sets value. The prehistoric current that dwells within humankind traces back thru a million years of question marks and false starts- a sculpture of parts.

The lucky lad's wry grandfather asked him one night with a wink, "You still dream you're Zorro? Or, does Zorro still dream he's you?" Rising up into friendly shadows of sleep, testing out which is true, the boy ascends to the heroes' realms, until next sunrise due.

His cellphone running very low, it's been ten minutes now, he's already behind schedule. He'll have to hussle. The delivery driver cannot reassure his jealous, irrational girlfriend. "You need to believe me, love. It's my job. I just drop off the packages. I don't flirt!"

Frog looked earnest and sincere, but don't they always? That didn't help. Cricket barely breathed, keeping so still, the leaves around them seemed to tremble. He focused on frog's eyes, looking for a clue about trusting him.  "You say you won't pounce, if I'm still. But, can I know if you won't or will?" "You can know I'm a frog of my word. So, then trust all you clearly heard.", said famished frog, trying to sound full. So, cautious cricket kindly let down his guard, and frog snapped him up like the last salmon hors d'oeuvre. But, as luck would favor, cricket himself was unaware of a certain family gene he shared that released poisonous enzymes designed to counterattack all antagonists, as a clever prehistoric self-protection.  Within twenty seconds, frog bloated up, convulsed, then projectiled everything including cricket, who was a bit digested, but no worse for wear. Sadly, frog, after laying on his side for a minute, hopped off i...

Cousin Rita spoke softly, as if she were recalling a long, terrible storm. "He was plain no good. Never cared about anyone, like he had a piece missing. Important piece. You watched him close when he came by, but careful not to stare, or do anything different. You moved slow. Everyone knew he could snap. It's a small town. Just plain no good."

No Bonnie and Clyde, true enough. These two just weren't as bloodthirsty. At least, not in that old, machine-gun manner. But also no dummies, Danny and Brenda had the math all worked out for their destiny with paradise. An ice-cool four hundred grand to split! Maybe more. So simple, their plan was also solid, well thought out down to every detail. The busy, blue-collar Savings and Loan was ridiculously consistent. 4pm, Thursdays, driver and one guard. Danny laughed at their good fortune.  He was betting these back road banks take a ton for granted, thinking no one knows or cares to hit them- very soft target, Danny said. He looked over at Brenda, recalling how they hooked up. He first saw her at last year's county rodeo, just as she was deftly seperating one big, smiling cowboy from his wallet, then disappearing into the crowd, Danny stealthily following. He had found a kindred spirit. The rest was easy, Brenda liked what he offered, and that was six months ago. Only sm...

The tired gardener's thoughts were wandering now. "They say green rose means Harmony, Peace and Health. Yet, I wonder if it's also the ancient rose's very first hue."

Stars raining across the heavens. Throughout his last night on this earth, he slept the very deepest, longest sleep, dreaming every year back thru his life, seeing all by light of forgiveness.

The one quality Sara's friends mention first and foremost about her is the irreverent, quirky sense of humor. That may explain why, when Reverend James stopped by to express his deepest condolences, Sara had no inclination to ever let the good man know there was most certainly a goof, because her grandmother was actually doing just fine, fast asleep in the next room.

Alone for hours in her vast backyard, Rebecca was perfectly content to spend her day imitating different insects, or birds. There were also squirrels and possums she could mimic in some manner, like a caterpillar's crawl to a butterfly's zigzag dance, she loved to imagine herself as other creatures or critters. Rebecca considered how they saw the world, and so she would pretend the spider's weave and reach, or an afternoon owl's solemn sentry, or a squirrel's intensity, precise motion. Rebecca worried her parents. An only child, she has and likes her friends. But they're  not the priority for her that is more common among most children. Rebecca was often satisfied and absorbed with the company of her own remarkably energetic imagination. This Saturday was Rebecca's tenth birthday. A party was planned, it was important to her mom, Rebecca realized years earlier. But it was the celebrating she didn't really get, a day of much fuss, she always recalled.  Bu...

Writing itself, the pure activity, calls up different metaphors. It's like only one piece at first, then you get absorbed in the puzzle. Until eventually you stick with it because you're curious, and because often the completed image is different from that on the box. Jig-saw ideas evolve while assembling.

"Ha, now look, what do I always say? Oldies but goodies, still the best today! Like your boyfriend. He's like white on rice on a paper plate in a snowstorm! Ahahaha, I'm just jokin', son, don't get mad now." Tracy's boyfriend Jake was doubled over laughing, but she was mortified. Why does her dad always have to embarrass her, like it's a hobby. Jake put his arm around her, saying "Let's go.", gently steering towards the door; Tracy was upset, never hides it. 'Honey, why do you do that?" Tracy's mom asked her dad from the kitchen, after the kids left. "Embarrass her. You know that's not appreciated. Why?"  "No call for her to be embarrassed!" But he knew his wife was right. Truth is, he didn't exactly know why. Later that evening, Tracy came home, walking into the kitchen, where her dad sat with his customary evening snack, Lucky Charms splashed with orange juice. The air was heavy, silent, neither ...