Category: random

This flower is smaller than the eraser end of a No.2 pencil, proving that sometimes one has to get down on their hands and knees to find beauty in an otherwise barren landscape.

His eyes roved about the room, moving from person to person before fastening onto her. He then put his arm around her, but she asked him to remove it and he did so immediately.

And while he lost his head, lacked brains and had no guts, she consentingly gave her heart to him. In doing so, she also gave him her hand as he took her arm.

It was there that they split; half going one way, half to the other. Yet, her eyes followed him down the road, across the street and neither one had the stomach for it.

This afternoon I learned that a sweet, dear friend of mine from high school, passed away. Katharine is perhaps the most talented jewelry designer in the world. I am so happy that there is a record in the way of this video of her beauty, her voice and her art. I will miss you for the remainder of my life.

Katharine (Chester) James was born December 30, 1958, in Crescent City, graduating from Del Norte High School in 1977. During high school we often teased each other, having given each other a pet-name. She called me ‘Tommy Salami,’ and I gave her the moniker, ‘Chester the Molester.’ She was always a sweet person and had a one of a kind smile for everybody she met.

Following graduation, she studied fashion merchandising at Brooks College and eventually turned her eye to fine jewelry eventually joining ‘Michael B.’ jewelry, where she rose to vice president of marketing and sales, and spent over a decade running operations. In 2005, Kathy launched her own collection, under her name ‘Katharine James.’

Kathy was so concerned about others, that even though she was ill, she refused to let many people know how badly the cancer had spread through her body. Instead, she preferred helping others, rather than having others ‘wait on her.’

She is survived by her mother, Maria Chester; brother, James Chester; and sister, Denise Kay. Kathy was 60 years old when she died on July 6, 2019.

Roman sat in his usual spot at the neighborhood watering-hole, a dark corner booth near the back. He nursed a gin and tonic as he thought of how to pay his bills now that the union was on strike.

As he sat thinking, he also picked-up bits and pieces of conversation from the booth near him. What he heard intrigued him.

“All ya gotta do is walk into the Bodega, buy a newspaper for a hundred bucks. The man gives you your change as he slips an envelope into the paper containing half-a-mill. That simple.”

Roman leaned back pressing his head against the divider, listening more intently, ignoring what he believed to be jus’ banter. Finally, he heard it – the address of the Bodega.

Without appearing to be in hurry, he slipped from his booth and headed out the door. Once in the street, he walked two blocks to make certain he wasn’t being followed, before hailing a cab.

Minutes later, Roman entered the Bodega and searched for the stack of newspapers he was sure would be on the counter near the register. He pulled his last 100 dollar bill from his pants pocket and laid it in front of the man behind the counter.

With a nod of his head the man reached under the counter and withdrew a thick envelop, then slipped it inside the folds of the paper, then he gave him his change. With both the paper and envelop in hand, he exited the store front and headed down the street.

Impatiently, Roman waited for the Number 54 bus. He caught it, riding for nearly 20 blocks, getting off, then flagging a cab to head yet another 20 blocks in an alternate direction.

Finally, he walked three blocks north, two block east and half a block south before catching a third cab for home, to be certain he wasn’t being followed. Less than half-an-hour later, he walked up the several flights of steps to his apartment, letting himself inside.

With the door closed, locked and bolted, he felt his heart racing as he quickly opened the envelop. Roman’s heart skipped a beat though when he pulled out the thick paperback book reading, ‘How To Make $250-thousand From Home,’ and noted the one-hundred dollar price tag.

It was a simple get together over some finger foods and a drink or two. It was also something that I was altogether unfamiliar with as people were not in the habit of inviting me to their little shindigs.

After arriving, I sat quiet on the small couch, firmly ignored, but listening intently and laughing at the various stories being told and other snippets of conversation I over heard. I nursed a beer and slowly fed my face with ‘Little Smokies’ drowning in a tangy barbecue sauce.

Suddenly a very adorable woman sat next to me. She introduced herself as Susie, telling me how she hadn’t planned to attend the latest party our host, Ken was throwing, that she was ‘a bit put-off by his attitude.’

Admittedly, I felt pleased as she scooched ever closer and closer to me, until we were practically one in what I would later learn passed for a love-seat. She seemed taken with me as she flirted endlessly, effortlessly through a series of casual touching; hair, shoulder, chest, thigh – her manicured nails tracing doodles idly across my body.

As the night drew to an end, I offered to walk her home as I did not have a vehicle. She politely said no thank you — then told me that she was already at home.

The look on my face must have said more than I’d meant for it too as she offered, “I’m married to Kenny.”

“Oh,” I responded, crest-fallen, “But I thought…”

“And you’ve been nothing but a total gentleman and he’s been nothing but a complete ass.”

“But…”

“You’ve made him jealous and that’s exactly what I wanted.”

“But…”

“Good night,” Susie smiled as she gently closed the front door to her home.

An odd backstory: my electronic camera, without its battery pack, snapped this photograph of the bedroom blinds by itself. Further, the photo is neither retouched or enhanced.

Writing is an experiment in which the experimenter cannot blow up the lab.

To the Okie vacationing in the Bahamas —  no matter how drunk or the number of ‘triple dog dares’ — do not attempt to ‘noodle’ a shark.

We were at the old train depot, now defunct and used only as a storage space by its private owner. My son and I had permission to wander through it as they were preparing to renovate the building.

“What time is it, Daddy?”

“About three,” I said, looking at my pocket watch which had a steam engine imprinted on its face.

He gave a slight pause before asking, “About?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t keep time very well anymore, son.”

“I know why that is, Daddy. Wanna know?”

“Yeah, why is that?”

“Because the train doesn’t run here anymore, so time doesn’t matter all that much.”

“Makes sense to me, kiddo.”

You know you’re in real ‘cowboy country’ when you enter a nice restaurant and see four men seated at a table with eight chairs and those extra four chairs each hold a ten-gallon Stetson, crown down, brim up, maintaining their ‘good fortunes.’