Sol's Random Stories

It's been years of mind scheming between Carl and his feline roomie. Both competitive by nature, each pares or blocks with X's and O's.  So far, it always ends a Cat's Game.

The new neighbor's infernal dog is a problem. We have to do something. I have a plan.

Mitch, an extraordinary scavanger artist, was prone to long afternoons of musings and wandering thoughts. He considered, "What would appear in a time lapse of the sky of your life, the decades passing slowly as barges of disparate memory? What patterns would unfold, what textures and hues revealed?" Mitch was inspired by his precious finds, and his wondering.

What does cold smell like? Burnt forest cooled by snow. Dead memory. Wordless scream. Laughing at hope. Cold smells sinister. Formaldehyde. Sealed boxes.  The dirt has forgotten you.

Does anyone remember me? Do I still exist? I'm in the apartment now for a year. My soul is in the closet with the coats. We don't go outside. Experts say it's still not safe. I don't watch TV, it's full of bad voices. Everything needed comes to the door. I wipe it all down. No one calls. Is the virus still killing everyone? Does anyone remember me? Do I still exist?

Scientists map a universe expanding, everything wheeling away from everything, Beth's life.

Shy Adrianna, lacking nerve to ever start conversations, imagines the cute pizza chef is her temporary boyfriend.

Vacation, great idea. What's the point? Why did I come here? Alone. What is time now, since they said I have months to live?

The distinguished art collector was nearly frantic. One day left to get everything done before his most important auction of the year in Milan. A two-week-long trip, the collector had studied the treasures offered for months. He'd likely add a few choice wins to his valuable home gallery. But now, more unexpected problems. A serviceman shows up at his front door. Working on a neighbor's electrical problem, it was determined related to a common area relay switch, and a few other homes' underground wiring had to be checked. It could take the next few days, but the art collector was leaving for the airport at dawn. "Do what you need to do, my housekeeper is here.", the collector said, his mind elsewhere. With everything now going according to plan, and his small crew ready to act, electrician Dennis McCullen, actually not his real profession or name- although coincidentally, a competent expert on home security systems- was careful to look surprised by the casual ...

Who knows the real patterns that go unseen? Patrick chalked it up to random coincidence, but now felt strange. The very same woman- the first person on the street he saw stepping out of his apartment at 6am- was later just ahead of him in the market checkout, and now again, somehow, she is his Uber driver. Just a harmless coincidence. Not to her.

This time you awaken as if from a shower of stars, glinting shards of shadow memory, remaining dream fading to room light, there was another, you were holding hands, walking, but who, and to where?

Terrible what happened, so soon after Christmas and New Year. Ruined everything. Retired neurosurgeon Christian Graham didn't deserve such rotten luck, no one did. Add to that the strange, sad fact that it remains a medical mystery today, five months later. The whole affair is bizarre, tragic. The doctors know he was poisened by something, and death came fast. But autopsy and forensic analysis came back inconclusive: unknown bacteria, pathogen, or parasite. He was gone within twenty-four hours after feeling suddenly weak, the first sign something was wrong. Graham's family and friends were still in shock, with no facts or answers for comfort. His older sister, a tropical research chemist, took it hardest. She had just finalized details of their parents' substantial estate, now a family trust, she and her brother as co-trustees. The  siblings were never close, but Graham's sister reached out to him when their mother was terminal. Sadly, she had just sent her unluck...

Five full hours of Marvin Reynolds' life  passed before a stooge from the dealership called back with the whole story. What Reynolds heard before from the dopey assistant manager was all hogwash. What really happened, thru a series of paperwork and human errore, was his brand new Highlander got on the wrong carrier, and was now on its way to Denver. They're working hard to get it back, sorry, blah blah. Most annoyed, Reynolds wondered whether he would outlive the extended ten-year warranty.

Best thing, don't think about it. The danger. Just keep going, stay on schedule. I'm a trained professional, so no worries. Not just anyone step up and does this. You follow procedures, every time. Never take a shortcut. Do everything the same, each car, and I get home safe, one, two, three. Focus now, reverse up the open ramp in a solid, swift move, keep it straight and tight, then brake. Good. Latch it up. Get down, get the next. Don't think too much, keep going, stay on schedule.

She didn't mean it. How do single parents do it?, she wondered, momentarily exhausted. Gina realized  the laundry was her break time while her mom had the twins. Embarrassed, some days were hard, even with help. It was just a bad moment, that's all. Gina didn't mean to shout at everyone.

One more thing to remember, Harold. 5G. Stay away, it shrinks your marbles. Your offspring will thank you one day.

Jonathan felt foolish hanging up- also sad. Calling the phone company was unnecessary. His was obviously working fine, but silent for days.

A text message? Okay. Business trip for a week. Good. He was wrong this time, worse, he was mean. But we were both drinking. Too much drama. Would have driven him to the airport, if he had asked. What was it we argued about?

How do you explain it? Through a local real estate auction, a man buys a property in Wisconsin, a small ranch house and lot, in a quiet, rural area. He drives across two states to see his purchase, a close friend along for the road trip. Arriving at the ranch, they stood outside for a few minutes, talking with a local agent, there to meet the new buyer. As the men talked, the ranch's new owner looked over at his friend. Standing behind him, at the corner of the long porch of the house, was an old woman in a blue shawl.  She was slightly trembling, looked proud and perhaps confused, but remained silent. The buyer, looking past his friend for several moments, finally said, "Hi. Can we help you?" As the other two men turned to see who the buyer had just spoken to, the old woman was suddenly gone. Just gone. The puzzled buyer ran around the side of the house, looking down the long, open field behind the structure. Nothing.  The other two men started questioning him, but by th...

Fathers and sons, they may come to know the singular feeling very well: when a girl or woman loves you, it's like Lois Lane and Superman. You want to be her hero, you were made for the job. It's a rarified status you feel great about achieving, a role that includes a unique bond of trust. When you have a woman's keen love and admiration, it's like you have her heart on loan, and she doesn't need it back for eternity. Because, she also has yours, on loan. These are difficult and yet most important matters to discuss between fathers and sons.

Dorothy's twenty-five year-old son seemed to be drifting in his faith. A childhood of church and scripture formed his beliefs, but older now, he was expressing the Devil's thoughts, Dorothy lamented. She'll be calm. "Just look at Genesis, mom. I've got problems at the very start.", her son was adament. "Brian, we can't have problems with God's word. It's final.", Dorothy protested. "No, listen mom, Genesis paints such a bad picture, who can believe it? Look. God says to Adam and Eve, do what you like, but don't even touch that fruit over there. Then, Genesis rats out the female. Eve's the weak one who got tempted by the evil Serpant. Adam blames her when questioned by God. She blames the snake. The snake eats dust for eternity. Mom, this story was so obviously written by some guy who didn't want all guys to look stupid!" Dorothy was dismayed, not sure how to reply. "Son, those "guys" were inspire...

Nick didn't like umbrellas in drinks. Tradition favors a straight Scotch man. No frills, Nick didn't need any. Fads, no thanks, he just liked to watch the  parade, wouldn't join it. His second double-Scotch half-gone, the jukebox sounded wavy, while the strobe light's began to blink into Nick's idea about a third drink. But, he knew it was too late for him. Folks around Nick were just getting started, as frosted mugs of frothy beer slid down the noisy bar with frequency. Only problem with this lively scene, but Nick was unconcerned: the Trinity Bar was closed, boarded up for months.

Easily the worst sound he could hear. Any sound, even some drooling alien's hungry squeal, wouldn't be as bad, or as unwelcome, worse than scary, Abrahan thought, chuckling to himself. Everything was still so strange. As his uncle came down the long hallway, the pace of his stride could reveal his mood. Fast was not good, while slower was hopeful. It's not exactly that Abe's uncle was mean. The ten year-old's guardian for the past thirteen long months, as the boy's parents awaited their second trip back to the US from Kuwait, the bureaucracy both impossible and corrupt. Abe didn't think it would be a whole year, the pandemic didn't help. He missed his parents painfully, but appeared strong as was expected of him. His young uncle was harsh and cold. Maybe he didn't like the spot he was in, Abraham wondered. Who knows why people are as they are? At night, Abe stared at a calendar on his wall. How much longer?

Her hand on the nozzle, the dollars and gallons rolling up in tandem, Gloria spied between the pumps to the other side, aghast. Maybe an old Plymouth model, could be seventies, with mini-wings, and not rust-colored body- it's real rust, fender to fender plus rooftop, trunk, hood. This car looked like it was parked under a waterfall for a damp decade. In the driver's seat, waddled sideways with one leg straight out, the car's owner was deftly balancing a large bowl of raman noodles on his belly, chopsticks in one hand, and a giant IPhone in the other which was blaring a Covid news update. He glanced up briefly at Gloria as she swiftly ducked back behind her pump, almost done. Driving away a few moments later, Gloria understood for the first time how someone- especially here in L.A.- could take off, nozzle still attached.

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.