Sol's Random Stories

There is only life, then no life, then life. There is nothing resembling regret in the animal kingdom. No self-pity, despite a moment's condition or fate.

"No, really, I feel great. Remember that robot vacuum that really bugged me?"

Was it strange to be nine and wonder about God? Why we were made, and what is God's reason for everything? Emmet was an odd kid, but he learned to keep some thoughts private. Only his grandma knew that Emmet wondered about things that had no answer, but she understood his nature, replying to his queries with the same thought- "just trust we're loved." Alone in the woods, he once again considered the possibilities. It couldn't simply be that the Creator of the whole universe just wanted praise. It couldn't be that God was lonely, or bored. Then, were we made just to be happy folks, and live a happy life? That's all it is? Emmet also wondered why he needed to know these unknowable things. He again felt back to where he started: he was still too small. For all his wondering, he still didn't know any more than the tiniest frog.

Ringo used every bit of self-control- and his special training- to not react at all when the subject of alien dogs came up.

No, not necessarily a philosophical thing. What does it mean, if I don't want to change myself or the world? Behaviors may change, they do. You get around to it all, eventually.

Great. Mall tram running late. Again.

Milky Way over Santorini, galaxy over sanctuary, paradise over paradise, dream over dream, space over earth, freedom over gravity, spirit over darkness.

For several years now, no one goes in. No one even admits to having a key. They say utility closet, then they say move on. Only two nurses left who know the true story.

In case you're feeling microscopic in relevance, a speck flying thru space, consider the case of poor dwarf stars. Like, Sirius B for example. No, not a new rapper. It's the much older kind of star, as in celestial body. Unbelievable, but true, it's not larger than Venus. Smallest star known? No, debatable. Many say it's currently a teeny star called "2MASS J0523-1403" located just 40 light years away. That's practicality a hopscotch from here. Some scientists suggest 2MASS may represent the smallest possible star. You see, all things big and small have limitations. Not just microscopic you.

Cousin Barry didnt apply much forethought to his family-famous sayings. "Look, you can sit on a new donut cushion, get a brand new view of life." The folks chuckled, we went back to the Walton's eplsode. Then, the doorbell wrang, setting off the dog. "Don't answer. It's Bible folks again. Pretend we're on vacation."  Dad was only half-joking, we knew. But mom answered, and it wasn't God calling this time- or maybe it was in a different way. The two officers in blue were quick to first say it was a neighborhood visit, no worries, raising some funds for their Youth Camp. Dad went to the door to shake some hands, always a big fan of the police. Cousin Barry joined them, "See? Donut cushion!", to everyone's bewilderment.

Lately more careful, especially needing to keep the cubicle gig until something better, Warren has faith it's going to turn around. If he can hang on, blend in, avoid any trouble or controversy. That's the deal. Different time now, more dangerous. Extra aware of every word he utters. There is always the real and present danger of someone's pointed criticism. Somebody doesn't like you, you're cancelled and gone.

"Louie, get a clue. Not all wifey types do the nesty thing! Take out the trash!"

The last voyage, we take alone. Last moments, final sums, totals, nothing carries over or subtracts. Others behind us now, all others. Must be alone for this stretch of the course, there's a reason for this. We did the best we could for others. It's the final good deed we're able to impart here, our own exit unburdened. With little understanding, we'll nonetheless trust the venerable sun consumes at dusk's horizon, charted from the very start, number of days finite, all spent with gratitude, next destination a mystery.  The last voyage, we take alone.

All things relative, this we know. Knowing only confort and privilege, Layla, born to status and generational wealth, was so unbearably bored in her life, she would daydream being poor.

Folks in the little mountain town said the last thing was too much, more than a soul can endure without leaving this world. They say her will shattered, for months she lay on her small couch. Others would come by to help. Didn't help that her wedding was so blessed, the whole town celebrated for two days with singing and dancing. Didn't help her son was born smiling, crop of black hair like his papa. The accident was sudden, the truck never seen. She lost her husband in a moment. Then, losing her child a week later, that's when she too departed. Intolerable pain breaking a chain of reality no longer desired, no longer useful. But, the doctors were hopeful over time. For now, a solemn routine, mindless and daily, long walks gathering her flowers.  

There was no one left who knew him. Everyone moved, died, or didn't care. No one kept in touch. Austin, Texas had been his only home, but now? What exactly is home? Dreading the menu, sixth night in a row in a booth, imagining friends, Jon drove back down to the mall for his dinner.

I'm 117 years old, still going strong. You get this old because of attitude. What do you know about anything?

"I wasn't always anti-social. I've become so. How much can we tolerate? Trespassing is the norm, nowhere for us to go, accept away from any more of what humans call progress. It's killing us and our friends. Garbage, pesticide, plastic, nets and hooks, the habitat is spoiled for our young. So, I'm deeper now, away from even my own. More cautious, more alone, I've become so."

Darryl could hear the two voices in the room next door, a heated quarrel. "You had the great idea, 21st century! Why? And, why here?", the one voice chided, with a sharp tinge of anger. "Yeah, but you're the genius? Another reverse hyper-warp? Where would that have taken us, this time?", the second voice countered. "Not here, that's where!" Then, muffled sounds of more arguing. Darryl was puzzled. He was the only tenant remaining in the  boarded-up hotel, scheduled for demolition in two months. Maybe workmen, he thought. But then, absolute silence. Curious, Darryl slipped out of his apartment, saw the next door was ajar. Walking in cautiously, he noticed the walls were solid green, and there was only one other door in the entire room.

Some might call it selfish. Some might call it an accident. I made a mistake. I just wanted the pain to stop. I was depressed. I gave up my precious only life for this?

Clifton's Cafeteria on Broadway and Seventh was Jana's favorite place for a dreamily solitary lunch, grateful for time all to herself, a lunch just for one. Pushing her tray along, she went for her comfort selections like roasted turkey half--sandwich on dense, seedy wheat. Ceasar salad, plus a small bowl of chilled watermelon chunks, scoop of tangy pineapple cottage cheese. Luckily, her favorite table was free, in a darkened second-tier corner, near the tiny chapel with the enchanted ancient Seqouia forest display inside. It was always her own special delight as a child two decades earlier, when she would come to the  picturesque restaurant with her mom. Sadly, the chapel was locked up years ago. Jana's stray thoughts seemed to disappear into the little stream that passed by her table, one of many throughout the misty, rain forest interior of the historic local eatery. Walking back outside, squinting against the late afternoon sun, Jana noticed a small kiosk near t...

Most Friday evenings, I like to watch my friend Mitch's live art shows, and my dog watches with me. Last time, she asked me if my artist friend also paints his long sideburns. Just because messing with my dog is always good, I answered yes, yes he does. But, only one side.

The beer pitchers kept coming, while the three friends knocked down the pizza slices like they'd just left a famine. The casual talk turned to cash, currency, and then to the faces on the bills, the U.S. green money hit parade of founders, framers, and others. Charles, oldest and prone to speeches took over the counter. "Look, this is all I'm saying, they got these guys on the wrong ones. Washington? Father of our country? One dollar? One? Take our first President to the dollar store? That's clearly wrong. Lincoln, who many believe was our greatest, he's not feeling much better than George. Next, Alexander Hamilton, on the Ten-" Smiling broadly, second friend Sean cut him off, "You forgot one, bud. How about that Two-dollar bill? Jefferson?" "Yeah, okay, and that's just silly!" But, Charles had lost the floor as third friend Mike jumps in, "Andrew Jackson on the Twenty, he's got this bad scowl. And, old Grant on the Fifty...

Some mysteriously selected memory can remain in one's thoughts forever. Now middled-aged, Jerry still recalls the puzzling sight while walking down busy Broadway. His mom's hand pulling them along, Jerry must have been five or six. The Los Angeles morning sun already warming the sidewalks by ten, he'd often see the "mirror man." Probably some kind of European, as most immigrants were in the post-war  forties and fifties, he was a small man, neatly dressed in gray suit, white shirt. He always held in his palm a round mirror, and constantly spoke directly into it as he walked. His speech would become very excited, conversing with his mirror as if another person, usually in German, sometimes heavy accent but fluent English. The man would sometimes laugh, other times seem to argue, always  intensely engaged, self-absorbed. Jerry noticed how the man talked continuously, seeming to not even pause to breath, holding his mirror close, never glancing left or right. O...

What a common, salt-speckled pretzel becomes in his dreams.

It was later and hotter in the July afternoon. The two dads sat on facing crates in the garage with their cold Pabst in hand. The one dad- father to a teen daughter- continued his rant, as the other dad- father to a five-year old son- listened, imagining the future. "I just tried to give the kid something to think about. This boyfriend of hers, the longhair, they're spending every minute together. Too much. I told her, look at her mom and me- we have our own lives. It's better. Out of each other's way, right?" The listening dad didn't interrupt his friend with any comment, just staring down at the oily concrete. He imagined his own boy grown, with girlfriend, feeling a slight shudder at the fast-forwarded thought. Too soon. "I said to her, if you're okay pickin' each other's nose, maybe you need a new hobby besides each other. Maybe you need a little distance? But, you can't tell a teenager anything good, they don't hear it. She ...

The morning went well.  He jogged his Master around their block two times. He got a shank bone from a neighbor. He froze at the sight of a fat squirrel.  All the other dogs got barked at. The delivery man was rightly startled. A careless cat in the alley got chased. Nothing to do now besides basque in happy Mediterranean daydream under warm embrace of bright, Santorini sun.

The two brothers, Buddhist monks for the last two decades, had the same heated discussion, the same unresolved topic. Their positions hadn't budged an inch. For those who knew his characteristic impatience, Brother Bakti's name- which means obedient boy- was funny. Rebellious by temper, he obeyed very little, and that was part of the ongoing discussion: monk Bakti was tired of it.  The monastery, the life, all of it. After twenty years, he wanted out. Why? He would say because their Master would never allow Bakti any experience deemed worldly, irrelevant.  Brother Bakti was very devoted and committed when he decided his path, but now felt disillusioned, missing out. He longed to have some of the secular joys he thought about far too often. That was Brother Li's view- his brother's cravings were only clever Maya's tempting lures, while the monastic life of meditation and prayer needed no worldly experience. The monk would argue to his restless brother that sensory ex...

Earth's deeply hidden exception, slipped between primordial cracks and crevices of physics we pretend to comprehend, another realm with no time, little changes over milleniums in pristine underground cave grottos, where certain biochemical boilings began, bubbling up eventually into the multiplicity of nature's boundless example, our own peculiar humankind one of the curious exclamations, living for now on the thin surface of things.

The constant contradictions of time. Makes little sense, this age thing. Defying reason, chronologically sixty-seven, most days like fifty, and some days like twenty-five. Other days, seventy-five. Any useful aggregate of reason with all of the above? Unlikely. Many things are true at the same time, yet the days still take their turn. All things, age too, always in motion.  

Deep in our best mind there's a place, a sanctuary of safe haven, serenely landscaped by joy, time passing  as a friend walking, unhurried  by worry or mortal ambition,  a place in mind to escape, arrive anew, refreshed, undefined by a past better to forget: it's a place of no regret.

It's a fascinating, unanswered mystery. Can dogs see souls? Charley was a gregarious mix of who-knows-what breeds, his dad was never curious to find out. Charley's persona was basically Everydog, a very happy guy, tail always wagging, even as he slept. Happy dreams mean a dog is loved deeply and dearly, like us, the very same principles of joy and kindness. But, do dogs have perceptions far beyond our known limitations, sensing certain phenomena involving broader realms of reality? We know they hear a mile away, and constantly pick up scents we never smell. What else do dogs sense? Charley's dad was the best parent any dog could hope for, always thinking of his dog as his third child, the dad's first two grown with their own families. An enduring widow for years now, Charley has helped his grieving dad go forward. But it was the very day of his wife's passing that Charley's dad began seeing his dog very differently. As a final silver lining, Charley's ...

He doesn't understand why they do it, but Gorilla laughs every time. In almost all Superman episodes, it's his favorite scene: the bad guy empties his revolver, the bullets ricocheting everywhere, then throws it!  

The similar textures and patterns in nature, sometimes so eerily alike, or uncanny in character, or repeating in process as to suggest a Grand Artist of specific style, of certain technique and blending that becomes a signature theme, a Creator with ever-expanding canvas, yet most recognizable format, stars into galaxies, galaxies into giant clusters of perfect balance by gravitational dance, but little more than this is understood, we can only watch the show live, the Grand Artist working all around us.

2:12AM, the last guy just left, the market is empty now. Lights still blazing, air-conditioning chilling down the bodyless building. Refrigerated cases humming louder with no background customer chatter, all's good until 5AM first truck, first shift crew arrive. This is the market's three-hour break, the limbo hours. But then, trouble starts up in Dry-Pro. It's the yams and sweet potatoes again, they're staged too close, and the name-calling quickly escalates.

All one hundred being virtuosic imitators, Senator Parrot always answered questions like a leader.

"Talk it up, sure. But, leaves are leaves. Besides being first to know when it rains, what's the big deal advantage?"

Still smiling, he thought, "It's fine, I'm over it." Sloth didn't mean to take so long. He just had to think things over. But soon, they stopped picking him up for the Friday poker game at owl's barn.

No, not really, that's just a popular meme. Definitely not, time travelers don't have a certain look. They're like you or me, Roger, and I've long suspected you.

Coming back from somewhere in his thoughts, the farmer was embarrassed so many moments had passed, but no one was around to notice. Starting to rain now, he smelled the stacked hay and damp, chopped wood, wondering where the whole afternoon had gone.

Manatees possess vocal cords similar to humans, and could create sounds very much like human speech. Some scientists theorize they haven't developed speech communication because they lack ears to hear their voice. But Manatees know the real reason, and the scientists aren't close.

They were together sixty years. She adored him and their long partnership. Daily, he made her feel like they were secret royalty, his queen, her king, their decades together were uniquely rich, special beyond lineage or title. They also both fervently believed they had lived before, and were merely passing spirits thru dimensions of existence. Who knows? It was their favorite phrase. All things possible in this universe, they sincerely believed. The very elderly pair, devoted and inseparable, eventually passed at home, peaceably, within an hour of each other, family surrounding. And, just before new neighbors moved in next door, with their two regal cats.

Stuffed some fortune cookies for my boy, who stands tall and impatient in the frame of childhood's final door: "Every angry word you utter in life returns against you in some way." "Doing the right thing doesn't require a second reason, or consensus." "Lying to oneself preceeds all lies." "Be ever mindful of gut feelings." "Follow the natural cycles. When you are hungry, eat. Tired, rest." "Stop fear in its tracks- it's useful only to a point, then irrational." "Real threats are rare and obvious." Logic, a trusted battleground against dred." "First, see things as they are, no embellishment. Go from there."

"It's just, well, yumtious! With some homemade creme fresh and sweet berries? Honey, your friends will just move into your kitchen with sleeping bags!" Evelyn Boyer, world-renowned TV food show host and prolific author, was having a rockin' homerun show. "Oh my, I get so tongue-tied when I talk about food! Did I just invent another word? Yumtuous? Probably not, folks, it's just a twist on sumptuous, which is how I'd describe my next wonderful guest..." Boyer's voice faded as the show's producer took off her headpiece, relieved, for now anyway. The popular host seemed to be okay. So, the producer and Boyer- only days after the Eats Channel star's sudden, super-private hospitalization- were still the only two who knew what happened- Boyer's decade-long food secret.

"Try to see it like this: what turns a simple game into gambling is money. Or, any kind of gain like prizes, gifts, even winning a turn on a spinning wheel becomes real, illegal wagering if there's a penny of U.S. currency involved. If not, free Bingo." Richard Allen Decker was already getting bored stiff, hour one into day one of "Gambling School". The mighty Las Vegas Tropicana Casino's own in-house program. Decker cleaned rooms double-shift for six months, then finally got someone's nod. It was the lucky break he prayed for. Black Jack dealer, or Roulette, Decker didn't care what. But, Decker was also careful, wary. After six months, he had learned that the Tropicana management had their own ways. If they wanted to know anything about you, their security would find out, fast. He would have to do his best, glad to have no enemies. But, this first class was a big snooze. Going to be a long training if this is the pace- everything the instructo...

It was late. The boxing was over. The screens went to ice hockey, no sound. It was his fifth beer yapping now, as Ronnie protested, "Okay, I'm just trying to hang on to this globe, here, sir, it's spinnin' too fast, dude! What? Gravity yeah, I know there's gravity, but I wouldn't count on it! You always need a backup. Hey somebody, quick, tie me down to this bar, that should work!" Even the two stoneface bartenders were smiling now. The toasted regular was done for the night, soon someone will call his lonely Lyft back home.

"Rabies! You heard of rabies? That's the big deal!" The neighbor was practically shouting now. Molly was speechless. She didn't know him well, for several years now, not uncommon. One of the tiniest baby squirrels scurried along the old wall, as her neighbor freshly shuddered. "See? You're only encouraging them." "No, just feeding them.", Molly finally spoke. She held up the bag of peanuts. "Still don't see a problem here." Molly's look of calm but firm resolve was enough, the neighbor retreated to his door. Then, turning back one last time, "What about the salt, that's good?" Molly held up the bag again, "Unsalted!", just as his door slammed.  

I was that boy, no patience for jig-saw puzzles. Always wanted to assemble them with kid scissors, not because I'm in a hurry, but because I'm in control. Various puzzles of writing are similar, but pieces don't arrive pre-cut, and kid scissors are fine now, but risky.

Who ever would believe a tale about a tearful portrait? Art expert and critic Owen Oliver found the idea laughable. Countless works of art have myths attached to their often dubious history. This story of a crying Saint Monica, it sounded to Oliver like so many before. Someone sees something, perhaps after too much parrish wine, and soon the hordes appear to witness miracles. Skeptical by nature, Oliver scoffed at the myth's details rumoured down for a century: only certain nights of the year- some speculate according to the varying level of Saint Monica's cosmic pain- at deadstrike of midnight, say those who've witnessed, a slight, pale blue tear descends from the blessed Saint's eye, while wheeling, troubled heavens cry out in frightful unison. Most entertaining, Oliver nervously thought, going home after working late, about to walk past the darkened gallery chamber where Saint Monica's portrait slumbered, a stroke before twelve o'clock, no less, Oliver c...

The unfathomable enormity of space, the inconceivable distances between everything known to exist within a departing universe of expanding uncertainty, a space escaping itself, so that astronomy and cosmology become meditations of my own smallness in context, the smaller I become, the transient bravado consciousness returns to micro speck of nothing dust, soul debri, more flotsam for eternity- continuing as primary mortal or celestial mystery.