Sol's Random Stories

Walking about for no reason, feeling unworried, carefree, Sandor quietly approached the old monk with a certain unnamed caution, as well as the customary reverence. You couldn't know what to expect with strangers.  "Good evening, father, the air is cooler now, today was so very hot and dry." The monk just nodded back slow and steady, like a long, practiced breath. Sandor sat down beside him on the tree bench, waiting, deciding not to speak again, at least for the moment.  A certain stillness came between them as if time itself had come to a pause, then the monk raised his head. His strong but soft, high toned voice broke the silent air, "So, you are just passing thru, you will leave tomorrow, bound for home. Yes, cooler tonight." Sandor was wide-eyed stunned and speechless. Okay, he thought, not looking for any parlor tricks or spiritual directions, however he was puzzled about how his personal plans were guessed so easily. But, before he could think, the old mo...

Trees, one thing about them, they are always doing things we don't see. Every tree is an entire world of activity and purpose. There is one particular phenomenon seen with many like species, or even among different species, called canopy shyness, or canopy disengagement. Among some groups of trees, they do not touch each other, instead forming a clever canopy with channel-like gaps.  This process has been studied for decades now, but scientists still don't agree about why this may happen. Some tree experts think it's a sort of social distancing, contracting disease may be prevented, or any parasitical danger, it would isolate its spread. Or, trees communicate amongst themselves via channels beyond our mortal experience, trees self-declaring their respective canopy boundaries.  Looking like machine-cut jigsaw puzzles, these special trees leave a certain respect between them as if by mutually realized design that only underscores how trees affect each other in grand and natur...

Maybe it's all just a refractory illusion, wholly based on eye structures and their functions. But, was there a first color my new brain registered, or noticed before others? Was it my mom's hazel eyes, or the first bright blue in a blanket? Was it the midwife's red hair, or maybe something on the wall, in a picture, an orange sunset across a clear lake?  When my new eyes fully opened, first focusing on objects and such, what color became my lucky hue, or, is it even meant that we could know, always favoring a certain color yet not recalling why? Do spirits or souls have their own colors? Now we're assuming upon even more assumptions, a double handful of rainbow.

Part 1 Very first memory, taking sips from a small glass, my father would mix some sweet kosher wine with water, probably on a holiday like Passover. The sharp kick of alcohol, even that miniscule amount, and the warmth down the throat, spreading inside. First few times it was consumed in quantity, and I actually got drunk, then pretty sick, was with some Cold Duck. Don't recall how we ever got a couple of bottles, with my old friend David, I think we were fifteen or so at the time. It wasn't easy, slowly draining a bottle of this bubbly crap while trying to play double solitaire in my mom's garage, the taste of it became more tolerable.  But, after a few times waking up feeling like morning meatloaf roadkill, you tell yourself it's just not worth it, but then you forget that fairly quickly. Perspectives can change at different ages, like old memories, they evolve. Fast-forward a few years later, after little interest in the subject, I re-united with alcohol in a whole ...

What can be gleaned from a quick look at the world's oldest tree? The Great Basin Bristlecone Pine (Pinus longaeva) has been deemed the oldest tree in existence, reaching an astonishing age of over 5,000 years!  These uniquely hardy, slow-growing trees can reach a height of 50 feet, with a trunk diameter of 154 inches. This tree endures in the harshest environment and toughest terrain. Super cold temperatures, petrifying winds, conditions that obliterate most life around them, these trees are also mythical in their ability to resist a horde of natural enemies and predators, elements, fires, or floods. These oldest species are found in California, Utah, and Nevada, in the White and Inyo Mountains. The world's oldest tree has a brilliant root system. It's mostly composed of highly branched, shallow roots, while a few large, branching roots provide structural support. If we humans, individually or collectively, could have such luck with longevity, I'd like to think the few...

Understand, cats themselves do not buy into the whole nine lives thing. That's obviously a human invention, and some cats might say not original. Cats are so universally more savvy than their human folks, it's nearly awkward. Cats have to dumb down to get our attention. My doggie does something very similar, but the over-eager wagging tail gives it away too soon. Cats read the room a whole lot better. They understand right away who the can openers are, the only-strokers, and especially those ignoring humans who can intrigue some curious cats to sheer distraction. Understand, in the cat world, we're always their toy of the moment, lucky gratitude expected. One of the very best things about cats is how these heavenly critters really don't always need us, and have their own independence of wild spirit. In a world that often needs us too much, cats remind us we're just not all that.

Two brothers, twins in their twenties, prepared their respective horses- coincidentally also twins- for the week-long trip ahead of them. One brother would journey thru the desert to a town that held an annual crops auction, to secure a price for their family farm harvest of corn. While the other twin went an opposite direction, thru some forest and meadows to their uncle's farm, to help bring in their wheat crop, as the uncle was still recovering from a bad illness.  After several days of travel, the brother in the desert noticed his horse was breathing hard, slowing down, although they had plenty of water and feed. Something was very wrong, so the two found some shade by a hillside, and the horse could rest up. But, things got worse very quickly. The horse soon was on its side, very obviously convulsing, in deep distress. There was no one in sight to help them, and the brother could only wait. Two hundred miles away, the other twin was nearing their uncle's farm. Suddenly, hi...

Do we really know what we know? How certain can we be, with so much mystery, so much yet undiscovered?  We typically call reality four dimensional— length, width, depth— and, one dimension of time. Yet, there is the intriguing possibility that more dimensions exist. According to string theory, one of the leading physics models, the universe may include up to ten dimensions!  Then, why do humans only experience four dimensions? Scientists theorize that the other dimensions are simply too small and fleeting for detection. But, no one knows yet, new clues are rare. The vastly undiscovered still eclipses all our collected knowledge combined. Yet, how can we explain the following? Do dimensions have secret doors? Is reality fluid and/or porous in nature? Harvey and Beth tried for a whole year, but pregnancy remained illusive. Then, it finally happened! The next eight months passed routinely, and their new baby was expected in two weeks. Nearly two years passed, the couple was so ha...

Well, I'm okay now, it was an hour ago. But earlier, while walking my dog, I was nearly injured. By a chunk of pizza. I'll explain. We're headed back up my block, hound and I, going back home, when I hear above me some very noisy drama.  Flying about in a group of five, seagulls, some tussle going on between them as they zoomed around, loudly squawking. Couldn't tell what was happening, I only thought, hey, you're all a couple of miles from the coast, short flight for them.  Then suddenly, a big thud thru palm fronds above, only a couple of feet from us by the curb, we walked over to look. Yup, no doubt. Heavy crust, pepperoni, about a half slice. That's what narrowly missed beaming us? Apparently, one of the birds had it, wasn't sharing, gravity took over.  Close call, could have been bad. Would have been the silliest injury ever. Serendipity comes in the oddest forms.

The universe remains unknowable for now. So, impossibly possible realms may dwell anywhere, dimensions unseen from here, and properties of physics yet undiscovered. O'Malley looked down at his child in awe. Three years just flew by like three months! He'd never known such joy and challenge, every moment held so preciously in the present, the delights of discovery, constant learning, like breathing with no thought.  Elias sat at the table with a bowl of berries, then suddenly turned to a small portrait on the dining room wall. "Papa", the infant said, then he repeated the word two times. O'Malley had never identified his father, or made any reference to the old photograph, so he was puzzled, but soon forgot about his son's strange, spontaneous utterance. Another year passed, and O'Malley again recalled what his boy had said about the old picture. So, before their day of hiking, when Elias came downstairs for breakfast, his father casually asked him how he k...

Since All Things Are Possible, maybe the direction of civilization can be mapped thru obscure sources. Like, the little signs folks post in their yards. We see a good variety every day, walking about as we do. True, my Pomeranian Chihuahua doesn't read, yet. But, we still note the contrast of messages our dear neighbors like to display. On a certain spectrum, you can see social attitudes trending from friendly to dangerous, understanding to demanding, and helpful to critically scolding. Do these signs secretly spell out our own destiny? Or, do we think too much, my doggie and I? Yes, she's catching flies while I'm catching clues, but it's still a very good relationship. It also follows that our kindest neighbors have the most approachable signs: like "Think global, act local. Please don't water our plants and flowers." Then, the signage tension ratchets up quickly as we turn a corner and see "Stop. No Pee Zone." And, the more realistic but terse ...

Nineteen. It was 1972 when I was that age, a world here in Los Angeles so different from now. One day, it was a beautifully colored dusk in warm July, the still palms sillouets against the clouds, rush hour traffic drone, but serene mood across the shimmering water. Sitting by my usual tree in Westlake Park, then came a big surprise. In one fairly scary and unexpected instant, two guys jumped out from behind a nearby bush, both commanding me to "FREEZE!" Well, I did just that, thinking I was getting robbed, but no such luck, so to speak. They were ununiformed officers from the notorious and elite Metro division, I later learned. But, their sudden and crashing entrance somehow didn't prevent my automatic response of flicking the glow end off the skinny joint I was smoking, and pop it down my throat. But, not quickly enough to go unnoticed, as the next thing I heard and felt was "He swallowed it!" Then, very strong hands tightening around my airpipes. "Spit ...

At 86, David often felt confused with things he saw and heard. He had to make new sense of new norms that seemed to change like the weather. Walking to the nearby park, it wasn't long before he saw a group of folks standing around a crying woman. Sobbing uncontrollably, her frame shaking with each shudder of grief that seemed to crush her, as the others tried in vain to console her. David didn't get too close to the drama, but a man standing beside the woman looked up and caught his stare. "It's her phone. The service is down. No one can tell her when it's returning.", the man explained, then looked off into the surging traffic. David nodded nervously and kept walking, a bit faster now to get away. How did things get like this, he wondered. When did it all change? When exactly did folks stop being free? At the park's entrance David saw a masked woman with a masked dog strolling across the wet morning grass. David chuckled to himself, thinking about how you...

Franklin didn't know it would be the last time, the very last conversation. A year had passed so quickly, and his mom's dementia had kept pace, Every visit, day by day, he saw her slipping away. But Franklin still visited often, although it became more difficult each trip. "The cab is here, mom, gotta go." Franklin walks to his mom's room with the lavender scent, with the doll collection and sachets in the drawer. His mom seems so small on her bed, sitting on the side, smoothing out single dollars from her purse. Franklin knew the routine, taking the handfull of bills as they hugged. He had learned to just accept anything she gave him, and then just stash it somewhere, because his mom won't remember, so any drama is avoided. He sees her struggling to clear her thoughts, and he feels the stabs of sorrow and anguish. They're so deep his whole body shudders in spasms of surrender, a visceral helplessness, he draws in one sharp, fearful breath. What good does ...

It was the persistent uncertainty of everything that caused Evelyn to so dislike this world, to feel its cold, unfriendly embrace. No place to trust, not much joy living alone so long now; mostly she looked for distractions.  Thirty-one already, forgotten in a cubicle in a big building in a big city, she blames no one, remains hopeful, although wary. But, too young to feel so disconnected. They met online, a chat room Evelyn dared visit on occasion. Some good conversation  started, and grew to something more over weeks of late night texting. Now, the first meeting in person, Evelyn finally agreed, with  mixed feelings of danger and anticipation. Both charged for a plan of first walking, then lunch, if things went that well. Now, waiting. Heart beating, and the constant second-guessing. Her life was just fine already, she thought. Why would Evelyn care to risk a disruption of her security? Now Ethan, her online friend, was almost fifteen minutes late. Maybe traffic? Shoul...

They are actually called funicular railways, this one a historic national landmark from 1901. Basically, Angel's Flight was a very short ride, with two cars named Olivet and Sinai, that ran in opposite directions on a shared cable. Originally, there were magnificent Victorian homes along one side of the hill, later sadly replaced with buildings.  What little I recall riding it with my mom- probably 1960, I was seven- included how scary steep it felt, the unwelcome lurching motion upward and downward, and how pointless it all seemed to me at the time.  Too much like how a roller coaster begins, the slow, ominous ascent, I wasn't a fan. We rode to the top, got off, waited a bit, then rode back down, my hand gripping my mom's the whole trip.  Then, we walked back across the street to Grand Central Market for groceries before the long bus ride back home. I recall this ride happened only a couple of times. There may have been more to see at the top, but we never explored anywh...

Brown recluse, the spider everyone fears, approaches a tall oak with cautious apprehension, as spiders move in their routine precision. Recluse eyes the scaly bark with a wary stare, rhetorically asking, "Tree, you're not afraid of me? Good, I'll stay. Your branches can save me. I'm starved, it's been three days or more, I've lost count." The tree is amused. "You are welcome. My list of fears is brief. Some creatures are not friends. Mostly, I fear for the health and wellness of my neighbor trees." Recluse is surprised by this answer, but puts the thought aside. There was a quick web to weave. Part 2 Hours later, belly no longer empty, Recluse rests, dozes, and dreams. In his dream, there are broad leaves like plates across a pond, clusters of tiny flies buzz about, and the morning's mist disappears into day. Recluse then dreams of trees in battle, thrashing about in unkind winds, then the calm of night's cool air. He was glad about the s...

With relatively simple rules, the complexity of the game is legendary. Watching the masters play, I recall that I'm skilled enough not to use real cash. At the top levels, there are so many factors to consider, so intricate the thought process when the best players compete for the high stakes and glory. But, poker can also be the silliest game. The random shuffle each time can result in some of the most inexplicable drama of unlikely imagination, just as crazy as silly, both, with no apologies. Like recently, I was playing for fun online. I got 2-3 on three consecutive hands. Then, I got back-to-back double aces. What the freakin' hell is that? It happened. Cards that defy reality. If that isn't some evil, giggling wizard of mayhem playing an organ of silly tunes and odd rhymes, then nothing is real. Poker never stops to explain anything. Folks get up and walk away. Heads just shake, or get scratched. Or, you wonder what you did wrong or right, maybe accidentally. Or, clubs...

With relatively simple rules, the complexity of the game is legendary. Watching the masters play, I recall that I'm skilled enough not to use real cash. At the top levels, there are so many factors to consider, so intricate the thought process and strategy when the best players compete for the highest stakes and glory. But, poker can also be the silliest game. The random shuffle each time can result in some of the most inexplicable dramas of unlikely imagination, just as crazy as silly, both, with no apolsogy. Like recently, I was playing for fun online. I got 2-3 on three consecutive hands. Then, I got back-to-back double aces. What the freakin' hell is that? If that isn't some evil, giggling wizard of mayhem playing an organ of silly tunes and odd rhymes, then nothing is real. Poker never stops to explain what just happened. Folks get up and walk away. Heads just shake, or get scratched, or you wonder what you did wrong or right sometimes, knowing neither, but you have a ...

Found a bottle of blood red nail polish in the alley. Got the great idea to brush some across my forearm, and scare my mom. I ran into the kitchen holding my arm and moaning. My mom let out a scream the likes of which I had never heard before. But when I quickly explained, she flipped to white-hot mad. That's all I recall, and then flying back out of the house, my heart in my throat! She never told my father that one, but I felt horrible and she knew it.

Not what one would expect it to look like, heaven's red door. What would anyone expect of the unknown? Any dream is as good as another, any fantasy made real somewhere in the fleeing universe, believe as you will.  Or, small chapel cove of stone and rock, chamber of final confession, hewn thru millenniums of suffering and grief, now the blessed relief of departure from this physical world- is there another? Or, as Krishnamurti and others believe, there is only thought. Or, just a red door, no eyehole, simple lock, behind it only trusting souls we know.  

It was nothing to him, hard work. Jack could work all day and night, grinning and carrying on, he outlasted men half his age with seemingly no effort whatsoever. Losing his dad at five, something snapped inside, he started working like his father worked, early and hard till late. No matter the project or effort, Jack seemed to thrive when others  reached exhaustion. By the end of his teens, he had saved enough for both a home and business, learning real estate, then got his state credential at twenty. By age thirty Jack's office was bustling with buyers, sellers, and listings enough for a small but growing sales team, and a new loan financing bank alliance. Then, one plain August morning they found him in an old freight elevator, after Jack went missing for two days. No note. All the while we toil over our little life plans, so much effort every day to be successful. But, no one ever knows what fate has already decided ahead for us. If you believe in that sort of thing.  ...

Because life is so very brief, let's be honest whenever reasonably possible. For example, it doesn't help my desire to awaken with gratitude when my phone alarm goes off at 4:45am. Yes, I do have the old Peanuts piano solo as my wake-up, the venerable Snoopy tune, always cool. But, after recalling the day of the week, and that it's a 6am work shift morning, my gratefulness for waking up is next. Some unknown and unnamed force in this immensely mysterious universe has given me another day of living. Another day in the light of my thoughts passing in a stream of random or subconscious associations. How can I dependably awaken without some alarm, even nice, charming ones, jogging me out of delta deep dreams as if consciousness is so much better, or a bit more sleep is just inconsequential? I could train my dog to wake me up, but no, she's okay with me getting fired for serial tardiness.  Maybe I can awaken to the wonderful ground root sounds of Gregorian chants, then segue...

How annoying is it to hear myself use the cliche so blithely, an unclever response to some throw-away query? Yup, turning 70 this May 9th, "It's just a number." As if this fluffle had any meaning, or helped me in any way with the mad and somewhat roiling stew of mixed feelings about this milestone. My dear buds have comical offerings of their own, most are approaching the age or already there, a few beyond.  "Dude least you're not on the wrong side of the grass!" "You look good for eighty!" "Remember, it's not how long you live." "Spend it all before you go!"  It's funny or maybe just routine how we all deal with aging awkwardly at times, other times, we feel a calmer grace.  Being so amazingly blessed to have my mom in my life at this age, what else even matters? So many of my dear friends miss their folks like a daily ache that never leaves, a lifelong, honorable burden, a pain that cannot be resolved.  All I want for ...

On certain nearby streets, they're numerous. Liquidambar straciflua, more commonly known as the American sweet gum tree. What a benign name! It's certainly not the tree's fault,  have to remind myself. Nature, intrinsically efficient, decides by practicality of design, so there is a purpose to every trait. No assignment to be the favorite of some other species, although that too happens.  Myriads of factors apply, choices of logical necessity and replication, evolutions in kind. A few times a year, this tree grows these obnoxious, hard and spiky seed pods. In a brisk wind, they all get blown  to the sidewalks by the hundreds , blanketing the block with menace, especially for my dog and me on our many walks. Made the mistake of trying to crush one under my hapless sneaker- painful surprise- they're inexplicably like rocks. No doubt, this tree has its good reasons. It's likely they're defensive against bird prey and other potential enemies, I get it. Protection of...

He couldn't have been over thirty. But, after some time on the street, it becomes harder to guess age. Absorbed in his effort, he put the finishing touches on his intricate chalk design, a glowing mandala.  His colored chalks lined up neatly above his creation, seven or eight vibrant pastels, some only small nubs left. While carefully making some very thin, white lines, not looking up, he asks "Spare change or food?" Entering the 7-11 without responding, only nodding which he doesn't see, I swing back the glass door to whoosh myself inside. Quickly grabbing the box of eyedrops I came for, then adding a hot dog and pizza slice, before my swift exit. Handing the artist his food, he replies simply with "God bless you.", and I am saddened that he's so grateful-- why? The art of hunger is a circular misery, uncertain like a daily maze, or labyrynth of curves. Walking home, I'm trapped in a fog of unsettled thoughts and cold air. Started this year with a v...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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