Category: random

In the dust of an old ghost town, five spirits gathered beneath the shade of an ancient cotton tree, each carrying a cherished book, worn and dog-eared from countless readings. As the sun dipped low in the sky, they decided to share the tales that had captured their hearts and minds.

First, Sam cleared his throat and began to spin a yarn. His words flowed like the Mississippi River, meandering and full of life. The group chuckled at the antics of Tom and Huck and marveled at the lessons of freedom and friendship.

“That Mark Twain sure had a way with words,” one of them mused, “his humor cuts to the heart of human nature.”

Next, a rugged adventurer named Jack took the floor. His stories were a symphony of the wild, a testament to the primal instincts that lurk within us all. They listened in awe to the struggles of Buck in the harsh Alaskan wilderness and felt the bond between man and beast in the tale of White Fang.

“Jack London paints a portrait of nature’s unforgiving beauty,” one of them remarked, “his words are a call to the wild in all of us.”

Then, a woman named Laura spoke up, her voice soft but full of warmth. She wove a tapestry of frontier life, where log cabins and prairie winds were as familiar as family. The group felt the hardships of winter in the Big Woods and celebrated the simple joys of a Little House on the Prairie.

“Laura Ingalls Wilder’s stories are like a warm embrace,” one of them shared, “she reminds us of the strength and resilience of pioneers.”

As the fire crackled, a cowboy named Will stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with the spirit of the open range. He brought to life the dusty trails, the thundering hooves, and the bond between a man and his horse. The group cheered for Smoky, the cow horse, and felt the pulse of the range in every brushstroke of Will James’ illustrations.

“Will James was a true cowboy, through and through,” one of them declared, “his art and words are a testament to a vanishing way of life.”

Finally, a man named Louis took his turn, his stories echoing with the songs of the American West. He painted landscapes with his words, from the vast deserts to the rugged mountains, and populated them with characters as sturdy as the pioneers. They followed the trails of cowboys and frontiersmen, feeling the grit and determination that defined their lives.

“Louis L’Amour’s writing is like a love letter to the West,” one of them reflected, “he captures its essence with a reverence that’s hard to match.”

As the night wore on, the spirits shared their favorite passages, discussing the nuances of each author’s style. They marveled at how each one had left an indelible mark on the landscape of American literature. And as they faded in the morning light, each storyteller had brought the West to life again.

And in the morning I was riding
Out through the breaks of that long plain,
And leather creaking in the quieting
Would sound with trot and trot again.
I lived in time with horse hoof falling;
I listened well and heard the calling.
The earth, my mother, bade to me,
Though I would still ride wild and free.
And as I flew out on the morning,
Before the bird, before the dawn,
I was the poem, I was the song.
My heart would beat the world a warning—
Those horsemen now rode all with me,
And we were good, and we were free.

1. “I lived in time with horse hoof falling…”

The rhythmic beat of the horse hooves represents a connection to nature and the passage of time. It symbolizes a harmonious existence with the land and the creatures that inhabit it.

1. “…and heard the calling…”

The “calling” suggests a deeper, spiritual connection between the rider and the land. It could signify a sense of purpose or destiny as if the earth itself is beckoning the rider forward.

1. “…I was the poem, I was the song.”

This line emphasizes the idea that the rider is intrinsically linked to the natural world. The rider becomes a living embodiment of the landscape, a part of the greater poetic tapestry of the frontier.

1. “My heart would beat the world a warning…”

The heart beating as a warning suggests a heightened sense of awareness and vigilance. It may symbolize a protector’s instinct, a readiness to face challenges, or a call to action in the face of adversity.

1. “Those horsemen now rode all with me…”

The presence of the horsemen could represent a collective spirit of camaraderie and shared purpose among those who roam the open range. It may symbolize a shared ethos and a sense of belonging to a greater community of riders.

1. “…And we were good, and we were free.”

This line encapsulates the ultimate symbolism of the poem. “Good” could represent a sense of moral integrity and respect for the land and its creatures. “Free” embodies the essence of the frontier spirit, the yearning for independence, and the untamed nature of the open range.

A wild stallion was found dead about 30 miles northwest of Ely after being shot in the abdomen on Wednesday, October 18.

American Wild Horse Campaign (AWHC) representative Monica Ross came across the lifeless animal while documenting the wild horses of the Triple B Herd Management Area on Nevada’s public lands. Alongside the mortal wound, she found a silver Ford Mustang emblem.

“The death of this majestic stallion is already a tragedy, but to compound it by affixing a Ford emblem is not only degrading but also devoid of respect,” Grace Kuhn, Communications Director for AWHC, said. “This incident highlights the urgent need for increased protection and preservation of our nation’s wild horses. We call upon authorities to thoroughly investigate this matter and bring the responsible party to justice.”

The AWHC reported the incident to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and the White Pine Sheriff’s Office.

41-year-old Johnathan Wilson of Stagecoach was arrested on Thursday, September 28, and charged with the unlawful and malicious killing of a wild horse, nicknamed “Frost,” after he shot the animal with a crossbow. He remains in the Lyon County Detention Center in Yerington.

dreamt of nuclear war
first time in forty years
missiles launching
aircraft overhead
mushroom cloud horizon
expanding dust
expanding heat
expanding death
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
climate change

In a crash on Monday, October 16, two residents of Fallon died in a two-vehicle collision involving a semi-truck at Mclean Road and Casey Road in Churchill County.

Nevada State Police responded to the scene at approximately 9:52 a.m.

According to preliminary investigations, a 2006 Pontiac sedan was heading eastbound on Casey Road, nearing the intersection with Mclean Road. Simultaneously, a 1997 semi-truck and trailer were traveling northbound on Mclean Road, approaching the Casey Road intersection.

The Pontiac failed to halt at the stop sign on Casey Road, inadvertently entering the path of the oncoming semi-truck. The collision resulted in an impact on the right side of the Pontiac, propelling the sedan into a nearby water canal.

Both occupants of the Pontiac sedan, Sheryl Evans, 73, and Christopher Jenkins, 42, succumbed to their injuries at the scene, as confirmed by state police authorities.

Authorities continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the collision.

atomic wet dreams
ashes to ashes and dust
this is climate change

“The only existential threat humanity faces — even more frightening than a nuclear war — is global warming; going above 1.5 degrees in the next 10 years,” Biden said.

It was the last thing he said before he turned and walked from the podium and the stage. I shook my head and turned off my cell phone.

“Demented old man.” I said, rolling over on my side, trying to sleep.

Rest came with images and nightmares of the Jews murdered by Hamas in a sneak attack. I could not help but wake myself coughing as I choked on imaginary dust from buildings collapsing inside the Gaza Strip.

My Wednesday came as a crisp Fall morning and two days after the last communication from the White House. I was working in what the season had left of my Alpalfa fields, and soon, it would be time to plant next year’s crop.

It was a brief flash, and I had only enough time to stand and face it before the heat swept over me as I thought in my final moment, “The fool was right for once.”

An hour after sunset and fifteen minutes after I pulled the covers over myself, a knock came at my door. The sudden interruption jolted me awake, my heart pounding in my chest.

Quickly I got up, stumbling in the dim light, and hastily pulled on my pants. Spotting a worn-out tee shirt in the corner, I snatched it from the dirty clothes basket and draped it over my shoulder.

I approached the door with cautious trepidation, my senses on high alert.

As I slowly turned the knob, a cold gust of wind blew through the crack, sending shivers down my spine. There, bathed in the eerie glow of the moonlight, stood two figures, both dressed in impeccably tailored black suits with crisp white button-down shirts.

Their eyes gleamed with an otherworldly intensity.

“Good evening,” the man’s voice was smooth, almost hypnotic. “We’d like to talk to you about Dracula,” he continued, his tone unwavering.

The woman’s smile was disconcertingly serene as she added, “May we come in?”

My heart raced, the implications of their words sinking in. Vampires.

The legends, the stories—they were real. At that moment, I knew the rules.

Vampires needed permission to enter a home, and she had just asked for it. Panic surged within me, and I slammed the door shut with all the strength I could muster.

The thud resonated through the quiet night, echoing my frantic heartbeat. I locked the door, my hands trembling, and backed away, my gaze never leaving the barrier between me and the enigmatic visitors.

I could hear their muffled voices outside, murmuring in a language I couldn’t comprehend.

For the rest of the night and into the early hours of morning I sat on the edge of my bed, my mind racing, unable to find solace in sleep. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the wind, seemed to taunt me with the presence of something beyond the realm of human understanding.

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, casting a warm, golden hue, a sense of relief washed over me. The night had passed, and with it, the immediate threat.

But I knew, deep down, that the encounter was far from over. The world beyond my door was a place of shadows and secrets, and I had been granted a glimpse into a reality I could never have imagined.

Down in the hovel, where shadows play,
A tale of Hell Betty, we shall relay.
No Barbie doll, nor Monroe’s sway,
She walks her lightening path in her way.

No statuesque form, nor Hollywood mold,
Full-figured, bold, a spirit untold.
Leathers and hat, her story unfolds,
Her personality fierce and uncontrolled.

Leathers clasp and hat pulled low,
A six-shooter’s gleam a determined glow.
No need for rowels to make her go,
In worn leather boots, she treads the show.

Her laughter echoes through the town,
A symphony of life, a merry sound.
Ink and curse, a colorful crown,
A spirit wild, unbridled, unbound.

Her laughter, a symphony, loud and clear,
If you can’t bear it, then step back, dear.
Immodest and wild, she holds no fear,
A soul untamed, a character sincere.

C Street’s her stage, where eyes all turn,
For Hell Betty’s presence, we all yearn.
With wit and tongue, a fire to burn,
She’s here at the right time, we discern.

In the heart of Nevada’s silvered land,
Lives Hell Betty, with a fiery strand.
A Comstock Canary, still singing strong,
With a reputation that’s danced along.

A good girl’s soul, a wild heart true,
She’s kept her fire, and her sky’s still blue.
Her brother’s guitar still strums the tune,
As Hell Betty dances beneath the moon.

A dip in the trough, a chill October morn,
A tribute to her, a vow to once sworn.
For Hell Betty’s the one our hearts are torn,
A goddess among us, a legend reborn.

For Hell Betty’s fire, a passion to burn,
Double tough, double soft, a lesson to learn.
Born not too late, but here at the right time,
With wit and sharp tongue, a spirit to climb.

In every man, a longing grows,
For a spirit fierce, a heart that glows.
Hell Betty’s essence, a tale that shows,
The power of a woman that only she knows.

So we self-sacrifice, in the hovel, we’ll stay,
To the Goddess of Dreams, homage to pay.
For Hell Betty’s the one, come what may,
In the heart of the West, she’ll forever sway.

In the quaint town of Snidleybrook, a woman named Emily had an unusual ability.

“I see dead people,” she would often say, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

Though initially taken aback, Emily’s friends grew accustomed to her peculiar talent.

One crisp autumn afternoon, Emily and her friend, Booger, strolled through the town square, leaves crunching beneath their boots. The topic of the upcoming election hung in the air, and Emily couldn’t resist a mischievous grin.

“I see dead people,” she declared, prompting a chuckle from Booger.

“What are they doing?” he inquired, anticipating an entertaining response.

“Voting by mail,” Emily answered with a wink.

Booger laughed, envisioning a spectral polling station with ethereal citizens marking their ballots. The image was so absurdly amusing that it stuck in his mind.

As election day drew near, Emily’s words took on a life of their own. The town became abuzz with speculation and excitement. People started to imagine the dearly departed taking part in the democratic process from the afterlife.

On the eve of the election, the town square transformed into a lively carnival. Booths adorned with red, white, and blue bunting lined the streets, and the scent of kettle corn and cider filled the air.

During the festivities, Emily and Booger spotted an old oak tree, its branches reaching out like welcoming arms. Beneath it was a makeshift mailbox labeled “Ghostly Ballot Box.”

With a playful glint in her eye, Emily whispered, “Shall we pay our respects to the mail-in voters?”

Booger grinned and followed her lead. They each took turns dropping imaginary ballots into the box, reveling in the absurdity of the moment.

The setting sun cast a warm golden hue across the town as a public address speaker boomed the results. The contest was closer than anyone expected, with candidates neck and neck.

Then, the announcement of the absentee ballots received by mail came. The crowd held its breath, and when numbers came through, there was a collective gasp.

The “Ghostly Ballot Box” had tipped the scales, giving a surprise victory to an underdog candidate. The town erupted in cheers and applause, celebrating the whimsical turn of events.

From that day forward, the legend of the mail-in voters became Willowbrook’s cherished tale. It was a reminder that sometimes, in the most unexpected places and unconventional ways, democracy finds its voice.

And Emily?

She continued to amuse and inspire, forever known as the woman who saw the potential for political participation even among the departed. Her town never forgot the lesson that sometimes, even the most unlikely participants can reshape history.

Yodie is what I called him, short for Coyote. An animal the size of a German Shepherd, with fur cascading around his neck and shoulders, he reminded me of a wolf.

Yodie and I shared a silent understanding. He would emerge from the shadows, nearly invisible, and fix his gaze upon me as I wandered along the familiar path.

Then, two nights ago, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert, I came upon Yodie. He was beside the well-trodden path, marred by a mortal wound.

Yodie had been shot and left to die, a cruel act.

As I approached, a smaller coyote stood nearby, attempting to move Yodie’s body into the concealing embrace of the brush. Yet, Yodie’s spirit still flickered within him.

His eyes met mine, a mixture of defiance and pleading, and he emitted a low snarl followed by a heart-wrenching whimper.

With only the desert stars as witnesses, I made a solemn choice. It was a choice borne of compassion, for no creature should endure needless suffering. With a heavy heart, I raised the pistol I carried for protection, and in one swift, merciful act, I released Yodie from his pain.

I laid him to rest among the embracing arms of the brush, a final act of reverence for a noble spirit that had graced these lands, and listened to the desert wind whisper its mournful lament, carrying Yodie’s essence into the night.

As darkness settled upon the desert the following evening, a chorus of coyotes echoed through the narrow canyons. Once full of wild exuberance, their yipping carried a deeper, more mournful tone.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but it was as if they, too, felt the loss of Yodie.

Tears welled in my eyes, and in the stillness of the night, I mourned the passing of Yodie, knowing that his spirit would forever roam the vast expanse of the untamed West.