Sol's Random Stories

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...

He wandered about the whole morning from daybreak, then he couldn't recall his name, or his home, or anything, his mind playing its tricks again. So, he sat down on a park bench, staring hard into the  path. "What if I don't care anymore about remembering, let it go, whatever I cannot recall, maybe that's better for me right now.", he thought, but wasn't certain about anything he imagined. He still had himself, the voice in his head, whoever that was, it's someone. That's all he needed for sitting on the bench, then watching a few birds as they quarrelled over something birdy that he could never know about. There was nowhere to go, and no one to arrive anywhere, so he just listened calmly to his heart beating, thinking nothing at all.  Hours later, somehow back with his wife at home, he recalled everything again as they talked. "It's the last day of the year.", she mentioned quietly. He nodded, but didn't understand.

Tasteless, odorless, forensically invisible, yet impatiently fatal. After only a few small sips, it's swift and painless. Marvels of modern chemistry, Monica mused. Good time for some good living, except for spouses who've become too wary. But, her big plans, still on track. Hard to imagine a world without coffee, Monica said out loud to absolutely no one, no one at all.

It's been a long decade of hard steps, setbacks, intractable puzzles that stayed up all night, still unsolved. But, Vernon kept plugging away, embracing every technical challenge with cheery determination, overcoming every incremental roadblock. Vernon just couldn't fail, or all would be lost, he was certain. The reclusive, self-taught scientist lived every moment for his most important mission, but was uncertain about the timing of what he knew was unfolding. Would the alien attackers come sooner than later? Would his new weapon be ready for their threat? Vernon preferred to test more, but he recently heard that certain codes were leaked by government saboteurs which may accelerate the coming war. Locked into his undetectable stealth bunker, Vernon will just have to hope it all works out as he has planned, all fingers crossed.

What if one morning you awaken, not into another day, but rather into a tube of light drawing you upward to a canopy of trees from where you'll see another forest? What if you go with no fear, as if flying away from this waking life? What if you count your days past as spent dreams already seen? What if your mind is focused up to a single spot of thought you know as a portal, do you dare pass thru? Who were you yesterday before your face or name- is there any trace? Circle of sky shows the way.

"Of course! My favorite ones are always on top; Imagine if it weren't so, I'd be ancient history. Just remember, don't believe the memes, it's a hoax. Ground floor convenience is overrated. I must have the penthouse view!"

While it's nearly all water, and water is most essential for survival, milk is the primal food. More personal and familiar, more emotional, milk is the nurturing elixir, the fluid of generations transferred.  The experiential qualities of milk are memorized early, along with smiling eyes and face, gentle touch, enrichment beyond just a baby's nutrition. Milk, extolled by queens, kings, and gods may be humankind's favorite beverage, the mammalian connection with our ancestral tether to the First Mom, whoever that was, she endures today, ageless, the kind milk of good luck and evolution. But, the taste and texture aren't universally loved or even liked, despite milk's intrinsic history and stature. Everyone knows folks who dislike dairy, and typically nature doesn't need it beyond early infancy. Yet, although the more valuable for life, water cannot quench the perpetual mortal thirsts for comfort, security, and family.

She dearly loves her parents. She wouldn't cause them distress or worry over her well being. She knows their love as sincerely as she knows herself. But, they are simply wrong. Their concerns are overblown. Their love cannot constrain her. She must see her new friend.

Behind these doors is your most closely kept secret. You even keep it from yourself by choice. Behind these doors is your giant monster creature with no name beyond All Fear itself, its own shudder of involuntary horror. No one may know behind these doors, or your pain made public would be unbearable and fatal. Keep shut forever, these doors.

From over a 100 million years before humankind appeared, bees were ubiquitous. They bobbed about everywhere, freely pollinating the planet with glorious plants and flowers, while also making their own exclusive honey. Industrious bees- only the size of a child's thumb or smaller, peaceably served in so many ways. Of course, all before the Mutation.

This life remains a mandala even when there seems to be only chaos, disorder, even ruin. Beauty of balance, symmetry of design, from a thumb-sized succulent to a spiral galaxy so incomprehensibly vast that a million light years voyage wouldn't cross its span, gargantuan mega structures so massive even thinking about them becomes a sort of meditation, our bipolar, tethered, and unexpanded minds must struggle to divine the unknowable against all odds or sensibility, yet we go on to Mars or beyond, build bigger telescopes, curious and restless humankind never happy to just end the great and perpetual search for...what, exactly? None can recall, but it yet remains unfound. So, search on, but know you're certain to at least find what you expect, it's all the rest that is unwarned, this life full of shocks and loss, sudden change, sometimes even horrific, when the bullet thru the bedroom wall finds the toddler's skull, or the airplane plunging two hundred doomed souls to a co...

Awake at 4am, a few moments before the alarm. Walt always thought that was uncanny, as if his brain had a brain of its own, on its own clock. Like certain natural mechanisms were in play, whirling away unseen, beyond his own routine. Out the door by 4:45, drive his small truck to the warehouse, then drive the big truck seven hours minus lunch, his breaks whenever he decides. Routines are lucky, Walt always believed, grateful for his own, otherwise too many thoughts take over. So much in life happens outright, like a slap to the face, surprise! It's good when nothing happens besides what you want or need. Clock in at 6am, grab the worn clipboard off the crooked nail, his route always to the valley and back, the day mapped out in stops, drop-offs, or loads, it's all the same to him. Talk radio and iced coffee are his shift partners, while other routines keep him in his lane, so thoughts stray only so much. 3:30pm, coming back home, there's his beloved tail wagger at the door,...

There has never been, nor will there ever again be one like you. The Universe cannot ever create again the very same spark, nor can a single moment ever linger. You are fully unique to creation, and singularly fashioned beyond duplication, imitation, or design.  This day celebrates you beyond your attention, acknowledge it. Ambient light favors your arrival, note its radiance when you rise. You're given another bounty of day, another cycle of discovery. Act like it's as valuable as water, as essential as breathe, or as lucky as time's first ladybug.

They said it was some sort of threshold. Some called it a portal, as if to another space.  Nobody dared, until one woman just went thru and disappeared. Thirty anguished minutes later, they all remained silent, some feared that the worst happened.  But, suddenly she reappeared, smiling, gliding in her stride. They all broke out at once in a frantic, senseless clamor, so the brave woman spoke: "No need for your questions, folks, I'm returning just as I left you, since only a few moments passed. Yet, you all look so astonished, like I've returned from some far away hell zone."  A man spoke up, "It was far longer than moments, ma'am, we're glad you're no worse off." The woman's smile softened. She wondered what he meant by longer. Had she not just left? But, she then recalled a certain detail, a distinct memory of a chilled, empty air all around her, and the coldest, oddest quiet.

I saw a beaming boy today, couldn't have been more than three, striding down the sidewalk atop his smiling father's shoulders, already the little king in life, with the very best view as if from a lofty treetop, surveying from high all there is to see, a fortunate lad well ahead of the fateful game, supported into his future as all children should be safe and secure, the simple and pure sanctity of  every child's hopeful heart, I saw a beaming boy today.

They found him quite dead, maybe two weeks or so, and old Mr. Fremont's plants quite alive. Vibrantly green and thriving, they contrasted the shambling interior. The broken down, remote chalet, far from the nearest village, gave no clues to his solitary passing. Some folks say Mr. Fremont was nearly a century old, and had just let everything go after his wife died a decade past. Apparently, enough rain had come through the ceiling to keep his cherished ferns going, an epilogue that would have only pleased the hermit centurean.

It was a good day. Didn't have to use my best play. Got by on luck, especially good when there's nothing else. Somewhere in west L.A. dopey car overheats, third time this month. Call AAA, then cancel when it starts back up. Sputtering h ot drive to 7-11 for a pint of oil. Afternoon's shot now anyhow, so maybe shift gears, say hell with it all, just forget this whole damn day, where I was going, and why. Park myself back in the car with an ice-cold horchata Big Gulp, and listen to my Sunday radio fun hour with world-class Chef Jamie Gwen, always a great show. Reminder to self: things not going right, there's always going with the flow. It was a good day. Didn't have to use my best play.

Every month or so, he just goes bat-crap crazy. Frank Campbell has walked up and down the same pitch-black alley for the last five years. Out of booze, cursing his damning impulses, with circular inner rants in the odd, disparate voices of strangers. " When all you think about is the mistakes, bad calls, rage starting as misunderstanding, posturing, mornng, noon, night, then alone in your room, no more self- lying, the stray BS of the day irrelevant, when all you think about are decisions made then gone bad, when you were focused, crazed, both, neither, rotten choices, yet you still didn't expect the worst, others also pained, a chain of hurt, you didn't think ahead, or behind, or at all, call it delusion delivered, or your mind in a loop trap of old crap, call it full of remorse, but you've forgotten who or when or why, try again, point towards an exit from the humdrum matrix, this time pick your own galaxy to roam, stay out of mine, when all you think about is the ...

From rushing understreams of sleep, Dana Conner rises before dawn to go to work, just as his father had before him, as they had for many generations past. Ninety-three now, he never retired decades ago when they offered. The two century-old foundry where the town and his family worked just saw him return each morning after steady morning, as if no years and decades had ever passed at all. Conner loved his job, his routine, blessed with his devoted wife, his four children and eleven grandkids. Conner trusted the unquestioned goodness of God, the enduring grace gifted to his life. From silent waters of streams completing their course, tracing back to their sacred source, Dana Conner rises to go to work one last time in kind, only a still body left behind.

In constant repose in view or not, above the atmospheric drama, the moon is unmoved by furious fronts swirled around the globe, unending caravans of flood and drought, dervish disasters spun over twenty-four time zones, if time were  a thing, this orb isn't saying tonight, or any other night, harmless cloud play, or hardened dance, assassin of last hopes, or both? With so many hearts lost, we'll know the next time it hides.

Some portals are obvious, others are not, it's the latter that direct essential pathways.  Tunnels bridge to realms of fresh musings in real dream-time, then awaken to new understanding. On the other side there is air infused with silver mist, ions of starlight from the next galaxy. There are trees rooted upon stranger paths, sign of divinity certain as the whirling zodiac. Destinations displace their end, journeys keep logs of memory, each step a measured pace. Some portals are obvious, others are sublime vortexes of departure- you're gone before you're here.

Fragments, momentarily lucid. Hey, if that's the deal, this fate's sealed, then let's just go somewhere, no, I mean right now, don't need any reason, we'll use these words and woods for paths, I'll tag along, let's go, the moment's arrived! On our way now, it will be greener soon, cooler later, there will be many trees and kinds of plant and bush, most familiar but also strange things with no name, we're both barefoot, stepping carefully through the thick flora carpet with its hidden life, you never take wild for granted, or forget to be cautious, all creatures big and small, an instinctual humility of being, the pragmatic respect that some unknown danger may always be near, our humankind always intruding someone elses domain, yet we're going farther now, continuing where no maps may guide, but the sun is still with us, or rather we are still following, we're ascending slightly now as it descends down and west from overhead, a sloping pasteur...

When his chopsticks break bad, Jerome takes it personally. When he just misses the green light, he wonders if he's ever in sync with anything in this universe. When the cards don't happen for him in poker, it's because of uncashed karma, or random and heinous misdeeds from forgotten lives, if one believes in such lame and wishful rubbish- and Jerome does believe, as many folks do, or want to believe. Jerome often concludes, "We're all really agnostics, even the staunch atheists, it's just that no one admits the scariest of fears, that's too personal." Jerome has no idea what luck is or how it works, does anyone? He would doubt it, but Jerome is a true gambler, a skeptic by default.

A melancholy mist falls thru the late morning. Marla looks out into the bright haze for something unseen, or for nothing at all. The entire estate is still now, the vast mansion, sprawling grounds and gardens, there's not a sound. No bounding dogs or clambering children filling the air with joyful noises and busy, random fun. Marla's successful, workaholic ex-husband divorced her five years ago, then married his boss who eventually inherited her family's giant corporation. The dogs have since passed. Maria's three kids, grown and gone to three different states, have ittle contact with her or each other. None call their dad. The circles turn, the dreams burn down to foolish ashes, you just sweep them up, and toss them out along with the day's junk mail. Marla stays at home, nowhere to go, lots of time now to get there.

Simon thought of the news story he heard. Pandemic economics still an influence, employers are bribing workers to return to their jobs. Seems many folks learned to like staying home for fat gov't checks, and so much free stuff. "Who would have ever thought that?", Simon wryly chuckled. Then, his thoughts wandered- as they often did- to his father, also to an earlier America, maybe gone now. Simon learned about work from his father, but that's for another story, deserving its own time and length. Simon thought of how attitudes regarding work- particularly among many young folks today- have simply changed. Work, no work, no big deal to some- forget tomorrow. Other ways to survive. Authority in every form is challenged, no one wants to be told anything, which can make workplace a battleground. Simon wondered if America has lost both love of country, and the basic work ethic, each so vital. He recalled the rare times his father was briefly unemployed, how profo...

Don't mean to be one-eyed, just know things from the male view.  Will was grateful to be there on his first day, or, to be anywhere.  Either you are somewhere, or, you're invisible, a sort of half-death. When a man has a job, he feels connected to the busy real world. There's motivated blood pumping. Conversely, when a man has no job, he feels on the other side of the glass, dependent, uncertain. Waking each morning becomes a rude greeting of apprehension, worry for breakfast, gulp down more coffee, figure out your next move. Nowhere to go, friends aren't home, except your dear elderly neighbors, long past their working years, always home. Men can value their dignity with currencies of silent endurance, patience, hope. Swallow the pain, whatever happens, it's just a warehouse, two-wheeler, and trucks, endless trucks to unload. Now, hold your head steady for the putrid men's room mirror, your hands on each side: you'll get thru this first shift, no matter ...

The two friends stared into the silent screen above the bar, some football contest was underway, neither knew who nor cared. Their conversation went from work, to wives, to a documentary one friend saw, describing the topic to the other.  "It was interesting how they presented the evidence, it's beyond any doubt, if you follow the science. We came from the apes. You believe that, too, right?"  The other friend took a long draw on his still frosty lager, not answering right away, thinking quietly amidst the bar's busy din. "I wouldn't exactly say it that way. No. We don't come from apes.", the pondering friend replied. "We are apes. Still are. Never stopped. We're animals. Specifically, we're mammals, homo-sapien mammals. Apes. We are them." Both friends then just sat in silence, considering that fact, what it meant, or didn't mean.

Old toad mostly likes routine. Things staying the same as last time. No surprises or big noises. Old toad's day is spent quietly, eyeballing slugs to snatch up.  They're always near him and the water; you'd think they'd learn over a millennium of being lunch. Sometimes a fly would land right on old toad's bumpy snout, very dumb, some bugs, or just naive.  Most unlike you or me, o ld toad lives out its routines unconsciously, asleep or awake, ignoring time passing with no awareness or distracted mirror ego, by evolution's scheme, old toad sees little beyond the world of pond.

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, h is 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.

Mack Brockton, despondant since his wife left and filed in one weekend, unemployed eleven  months, but he's no longer even looking now, spiraling down into a wretched trench of intractable depression, continues to inwardly turn his hard questions, like a Rosary, but they're all rhetorical: "What if God had a bad day? What if nothing worked out? What if our thoughts felt like spun cotton or burnt charcoal? What if there were no reasons? What if fear were free? What if nothing good mattered? Would colors go away? Would it all turn into a muddied gray? What if God had a bad day?"

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.

Four year-old Ghandal knows what sound is, although he was born with his hearing greatly impaired. He knows sound as vibration, and he knows vibration as a rough translation of the precious gift of his life. Ghandal looks for ways to hear eternity's silence, and this no contradiction. Bells of all kinds, or glass, certain stones or metals, or even just pressing close to a large pot become instruments in a Creator's excellence, a symphony of vibratory resonance. Ghandal knows his daily life thru sight and touch, and the visceral tones of the natural world across a range of divine frequencies, and never doubts that he is always in tune with God.

Ramanath was in a quandary, a dilemma, and didn't know his next move. He started having silly thoughts, like nametags would solve the problem, but ironically they'd be too tiny to read. So what to do? He hated killing things. "Great!", he thought. " You've got 'something' cornered near the ceiling, do you just ask? Is that trustworthy? You can imagine the awkward exchange: - You, with the long legs, you're cornered. Now, answer truthfully. Are you a harmless tipple, or midge, or crane fly wandered in here by mistake? Or, are you a shameless, maybe even deadly blood sucker waiting to pounce?" Then Ramanath realized it's no use- honestly, what do you think a snidely mosquito is going to say?

Nothing grabs your attention and focuses the mind like the unwelcome touch of cold steel at the base of the neck. Gary continued the story, his group of friends hanging on every word. "I knew I was in trouble when the chopped blue Chevy first rolled up, tinted back window half-down, a voice asking "where's Wilshire?" We were just off the corner of Wilshire and Cochran, so I knew the question was whack. Had a good hunch what was coming next. But I just kept walking, then I heard the car doors opening, footsteps coming up behind me real fast. One dude grabs my arm, I know not to turn around, then the gun to my head. I could sense there were three behind me, they were young. Nervous. One of them kept saying "Don't be stupid.", as if that was my plan, while the other two went through my pockets. I remembered I had only three dollars in cash, and my cards.  My thoughts were racing, but I felt calmer than they were, which I knew wasn't a good thing. The g...

"You think being this cute is easy? It's a commitment! My fan base is enormous and growing weekly. There are people and their people. Appearances, photo shoots, a thousand decisions! Hey, I'm just playing! It IS easy. I'm at the Poochie Parlor!"

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

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

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

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

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

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