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Many apologies, dear readers, for my unpardonable lapse in judgment that I am about to confess. I blame my dogs, though, in all fairness to their moral fiber–they are not solely at fault. The absence of children in the household has left them bereft of certain traditional amusements, such as the consumption of homework—a vice they practice with vigor and conviction when opportunity allows.

It all began innocently enough. There each was–my faithful companions–snouts nudging my pristine and conspicuously empty whiskey glass, sliding it about my desk like it was the shuttlecock in some canine variant of table badminton.

After a few rounds of this nonsense, punctuated by a strategic duet of woofs, I took the hint. A man can resist only so much dogged insistence, especially when it aligns neatly with his thirst.

So, I poured myself a modest dram—a modesty that lasted approximately two sips before being drowned in the generosity of the spirit–so to speak. Once I reached the bottom of the bottle, I was fully engaged in discourse with Buddy and Honey, my furry Socratic circle.

“Woof-woof,” said Buddy, tilting his head with the gravitas of a philosopher-king.

“Of course, I know about shit-posting,” I replied indignantly. “Why, I practically laid the cornerstone of the temple! Before it became fashionable, I was there, slinging my quips into the void like a deranged oracle.”

Honey, not to be outdone, piped up with a melodious “Woof, woof, woof.”

“Challenge accepted!” I bellowed, my whiskey-fueled bravado surging as I seized my cell phone.

And there it was, the fateful post: “To all the girls in Klamath I never slept with, please forgive this sinner.”

The reaction from my furry collaborators was instant and cacophonous. Their laughter—if such joyous howling can be such—echoed through the house like the trumpets of Jericho.

It summoned my wife, a woman of infinite patience but finite tolerance for nocturn racket. She appeared in the doorway, eyebrows arched high enough to touch the rafters.

A wiser man might have stopped then and there, but I am no such man.

Encouraged by my companion’s wagging tails and twinkling eyes, I sallied forth and pressed the send button. Alas, hindsight has revealed that those twinkles were not camaraderie but mischief most profound.

Having repented of my digital debauchery, I am off to redeem myself in the eyes of civilization. My plan is simple: next door lives a child, and where there is a child, there is homework.

With a modest bribe—a slice of pie or a dollar or two—I aim to procure some finished algebra or history essays. It will soothe my conscience and provide my canine companions with fresh entertainment.

If this fails, I fear I may have to take up knitting, for I hear it is a pastime immune to canine meddling and whiskey-induced epiphanies. But knowing my luck, Buddy and Honey would soon be sporting woolen sweaters and demanding a memoir of their exploits.

Christmas morning dawned with all the pomp and splendor one might expect from a holiday dedicated to peace, joy, and the annual reminder that wrapping paper cannot be recycled. The children—who exist only in the stories of others, for our home is devoid of such noise-makers—were replaced by my wife, Mary, and me, gleefully tearing open the carefully wrapped boxes we’d disguised from one another just days before.

Following this, we indulged in breakfast, one so hearty it bordered on a personal challenge to our circulatory systems.

All was well in the world until the sharp cry of memory gone awry interrupted our post-meal torpor. “The mail!” exclaimed Mary, with the fervor of one suddenly realizing she had forgotten to defuse a bomb. In the haze of holiday cheer—or my forgetfulness, depending on who tells the tale—I had neglected my solemn duty to retrieve the post the night prior.

Mary, ever the action-oriented half of this duo, donned her coat with a martyr’s air and ventured into the frigid outdoors. Our mailbox, cursed by the architect of our subdivision, resides across the street, a location that practically screams “rain-soaked bills” and “misdelivered packages.” As I watched her from the window, braving the elements for what was likely a batch of coupons and credit card offers, I marveled at her commitment to holding me accountable for this oversight.

Moments later, she returned, cheeks rosy and nose aglow, as if she were the spirit of Christmas herself. She held a large, nondescript plastic bag, like one from Amazon or Temu.

“Something for you,” she said, handing it over with the enthusiasm of a woman presenting a subpoena.

Now, I must explain–I am not the recipient of frequent mail. Letters addressed to me are typically of the grim, obligatory variety, demanding payment or apologizing for some delay. Packages are rarer still, and their arrival is cause for no small amount of curiosity.

So when I saw the sizable parcel, my heart fairly leaped. What could it be? A surprise gift? A belated expression of goodwill from an old acquaintance?

Mary, however, was quick to extinguish any flickering flames of hope. “It’s from the V.A.,” she announced with a certainty that only comes from years of knowing precisely how to crush this man’s spirit. She paused for effect, then added, with the kind of sly smile that should come with a warning label, “Probably your colonoscopy cleansing kit. So Merry-fucking-Christmas to you.”

There are moments in life when time slows down, and you must confront the sheer absurdity of your existence. Here was one of them. I stared at the bag in my hands, the weight of its likely contents pressing down on my soul as much as my palms. What was there to say? Nothing could have captured the poetry of that moment better than Mary’s parting words, which echoed in the room like a grim holiday carol.

And, as you sit by your fireside this Christmas, surrounded by loved ones and the pleasant chaos of the season, take a moment to remember that joy comes in many forms. Sometimes, it is in shiny paper with a bow.

Other times, it arrives in a government-issued bag, accompanied by the cold, unflinching truth of mortality.

High atop the rugged desert just west of Elko, beneath a sky ablaze with a thousand stars, a group of cowhands huddled close around the flickering campfire. Their faces, weathered and hardened by endless days spent under the sun and in the saddle, reflected the warm glow of the flames.

It was New Year’s Eve, and though they were far from the comforts of home, spirits undampened. The trail boss, an imposing figure named Buck Rawlins, stood at the edge of the firelight.

His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw made him a man of few words, but the respect he commanded from his crew spoke volumes. However, tonight, there was a rare twinkle in his eye as he loosened the grip on his ever-present Winchester and broke his silence.

“Well, boys,” he drawled, his voice a gravelly rumble, “another year’s come and gone. We’ve faced down rustlers, rattlers, and Lord knows what else. But we’re still here, and by God, we’ve driven those cattle farther than anyone thought possible.”

Jesse, a wiry lad barely into his twenties, piped up with a grin, “Ain’t that the truth, Boss. I reckon we’ll be legends by the time we roll into the next town.”

The men laughed, their eyes bright with pride and camaraderie. They had chosen the rough life of the open land, stretching out like an endless sea, and the horizon seemed to whisper secrets of adventure and promise. They had left behind families, sweethearts, and the simple comforts of civilized life, drawn by the call of the wild and the allure of a life untamed.

Jesse pulled out a harmonica and began to play a tune. The music brought memories, a reminder that even in the harshest of times, there was always room for a bit of joy and reflection.

As the night wore on, Buck produced a flask of whiskey from his saddlebag and passed it around. Each man took a swig, the fiery liquid warming their insides against the chill of the night. They shared stories of past adventures, embellished and exaggerated with each telling, their laughter ringing across the sands.

Old Tom, the seasoned cowpoke with more years behind him than any could count, leaned back and smiled. “Y’know,” he said, his voice a low drawl, “there’s somethin’ about nights like these that make a man feel alive. Ain’t no saloon in Virginia City can match the stars above and the fire at our feet.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Tom,” Buck replied, his gaze shifting to the sky. “May this new year bring us safe trails and good fortune. And may we always remember that no matter how far we roam, we are bound by the bond of brotherhood that no distance can break.”

The men raised their tin cups in a toast, the clink of metal echoing in the stillness of the night. As they settled into their bedrolls, the stars above shined a little brighter as if offering silent blessings for the new year.

In 1975, my 15-year-old imagination was buzzing with excitement and wonder about my future’s future. Fast forward to 2025, the same individual, now heading towards 65, reflects with a touch of nostalgia on the past while grappling with the realities of the present.

In the mid-70s, the world was in the middle of cultural shifts and technological marvels. Bell-bottom jeans were the height of fashion, disco music ruled the airwaves, and video games like Pong hinted at the coming digital revolution. As a youth of that era, I was full of dreams and aspirations, envisioning a future replete with flying cars, robotic helpers, and interplanetary travel.

Fifty years later, the technological landscape has indeed transformed. The internet connects people across continents instantaneously, smartphones have become extensions of our lives, and artificial intelligence now assists with tasks ranging from mundane to complex.

Despite the advancements, there is a longing for the simpler, more tangible joys of 1974.

“The music, the fashion, the sense of community—it was all so different back then,” reminisces the now nearly 65-year-old me. “There’s something irreplaceable about the vinyl records, the face-to-face interactions, and the freedom of a pre-digital world.”

In 2025, streaming services offer entertainment options at the touch of a button, but the magic of waiting for a favorite song to play on the radio is a memory that still brings a smile. Similarly, while today’s fashion is ever-evolving, the iconic styles of the 70s continue to influence modern trends.

Community dynamics have also seen a shift. While social media platforms enable global connections, they also lack the warmth and personal touch of neighborhood gatherings and local events that were a staple of life in 1975.

Yet, for all its advancements, the future has not dimmed the allure of the past.

“I often find myself missing the days when things were more straightforward,” I muse. “But it’s also fascinating to see how far we’ve come and to imagine what the next 50 years might bring.”

As the years unfold, the balance between past and present becomes a dance of memories and innovations, each era offering a unique charm and lessons.

In the words of this almost 64-year-old, “Here’s to the days of disco and the nights of Netflix.”

James stood on the porch of the antebellum-style house and smoked a cigarette. The fields were wide and flat, stretching to the horizon, where the light always seemed sharp and clear. It was the farm his father had worked, the farm his father had ruined, and now it was his. A dog barked somewhere far off, and James squinted against the morning sun. He thought about going inside, but he didn’t.

Later, as the day had warmed, he found the boy. The barn smelled of hay and grease and old wood. James had gone in looking for a length of rope, but he saw the boy curled up behind the stacks of feed sacks. The boy looked at him, his eyes dark and scared, like a rabbit’s when it knows it’s trapped.

“What the hell are you doing here?” James said.

The boy didn’t answer, pulling his knees closer to his chest.

“You deaf?” James said.

“I’m running,” the boy said finally.

“Running from what?”

The boy didn’t answer. James didn’t press him.

He looked at the boy, thin and dirty, his clothes torn. He knew he should take the boy into town and let the sheriff take care of it. That was what his father would’ve done. But James didn’t move. He stood there for a long time, staring at the boy.

“Stay here,” James said at last.

He didn’t know why he said it. The words felt strange in his mouth, but he voiced them anyway.

The boy’s name was Samuel, and James found he could make things with his hands—hooks, lines, lures. Good ones, too. The kind you could sell. James figured if the boy was to stay, he might as well earn his keep.

“You ever fished?” James asked him one afternoon.

“No,” Samuel said.

James laughed. “You make these and don’t fish?”

“I don’t make them for me,” Samuel said.

James didn’t have anything to say to that.

Grace came in the spring, when the dogwoods were blooming. She was visiting from town, bringing quilts her church had made. Her smile was quick and sure, and when she talked, she looked at you like she was reading every thought in your head.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” she said to James.

“Not much to say.”

She laughed at that, and it wasn’t cruel. It was the kind that made you want to hear it again.

James thought about her later while he fixed the fence on the north side of the pasture. He didn’t know why he was thinking about her, but he was.

Samuel stayed in the barn, but it got dangerous to keep him there. People asked questions.

Neighbors came by more often than they used to. James felt the stares, the glances that lingered a second too long.

“You can’t keep hiding me,” Samuel said one night.

“I’ll decide what I can do,” James said.

Samuel didn’t argue. He returned to shaping the bit of wood in his hand, his knife scraping softly in the dark.

When the men came, they didn’t come quiet. They arrived with loud voices, lights, and dogs that barked and pulled at their leashes.

“James,” Grace said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah,” James said. “I do.”

He stood on the porch, his rifle in his hands. The men shouted, their faces lit by the swinging lanterns.

“You can’t protect him, James,” one called. “You know that.”

James didn’t answer. He just stood there, the barrel of the rifle resting lightly against his palm. He could hear Samuel breathing behind him, quick and shallow.

“You go home,” James said finally. “All of you.”

The men didn’t move at first. Then, one of them spat on the ground and turned. The others followed, their voices low and angry as they headed back toward the road.

The farm was quiet again, but it didn’t feel the same. It would never feel the same.

James stood on the porch and smoked a cigarette. The sun was setting, the fields golden and soft in the fading light. Grace came up behind him, and he heard her footsteps, light on the wood.

“You did the right thing,” she said.

“Maybe,” James said. He dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel.

The weight of the past was still there, but it felt lighter now, like a shadow that was starting to fade.

The morning sun slanted low over the canyon, painting the rugged Nevada landscape in hues of gold and ochre. Drifter turned ranch hand, Nate Bishop sat on the weathered porch of the Circle T Ranch, nursing a tin cup of strong coffee.

Life on the range was solitary, and Nate preferred it that way. He watched as a faint dust cloud rose in the distance, signaling the slow approach of a band of feral horses.

The horses had become a regular sight. Descended from stock that had escaped or abandoned long ago, they moved like ghosts through the sagebrush, untethered and untamed. Nate respected them, but he kept his distance. He knew the unspoken rule of the West: wild things should stay wild.

This morning, though, one of them broke the code.

A sleek bay mare emerged from the brush, her coat gleaming in the sunlight. She moved with the unhurried confidence of a creature that had never known a halter or bridle.

Nate paid her no mind, sipping his coffee as he leaned back in his chair. But the mare had other ideas.

She crossed the yard, her hooves crunching softly on the gravel. Before Nate could react, she lowered her head and nuzzled his shoulder.

“Easy now,” Nate muttered, his voice low and steady.

He froze, unsure whether to laugh or push her away. Her warm breath brushed against his neck, and for a moment, he felt a strange kinship with the creature—a connection as old as the land itself.

Then his dog, Boone, bristled.

Boone, a wiry blue heeler, let out a low growl, his sharp eyes fixed on the mare. The horse snorted and stepped back, tossing her head in irritation.

Nate stood, placing himself between the two animals. “That’s enough, Boone,” he said firmly.

But the tension was palpable. A single wrong move and this peaceful morning could turn into chaos.

“Shoo,” Nate said, waving his hand at the mare. She hesitated, her dark eyes searching his as if testing his resolve. Then, tossing her mane, she turned and trotted back to the band waiting in the distance.

Nate let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Boone settled at his feet, but his watchful gaze followed the retreating mare. Nate scratched behind the dog’s ears.

“That could’ve gone sideways,” he said. “Can’t have you picking a fight with a horse.”

Later that day, Nate rode out to check the far fence line. The mare and her band had moved on, their tracks etched in the sandy soil.

He thought about how bold she’d been, how comfortable she’d felt coming up to a man. It wasn’t natural—not for a wild horse.

That evening, at the local saloon, Nate overheard a couple of tourists boasting about how they’d fed apples to the “cute little horses” near the trailhead.

“They just came right up to us,” one of them laughed. “Like they wanted to be friends.”

Nate set his glass down hard enough to draw a glance from the bartender.

“You feeding those horses?” he asked, his tone sharp.

The tourists blinked at him. “Yeah, so what?”

“You’re killing them,” Nate said bluntly. He stood, towering over their table. “You think you’re helping, but you’re teaching them to trust people. Next time, that mare might wander into the wrong yard, and someone with less patience than me will shoot her. Or she’ll step into the highway looking for handouts. You keep them wild, or you lose them.”

The words hung like the acrid smoke from the saloon’s stove. The tourists shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Nate left them to their drinks and walked out into the cool night air.

The stars stretched endlessly above him, a reminder of the vastness of the land and the creatures that roamed it. As he climbed in his truck and turned toward the ranch, he thought about the bay mare. She belonged out here, running free under the open sky—not sniffing at coffee cups or dodging curious dogs.

He vowed to keep an eye on her band, not to tame them but to protect what made them special. Because some things, Nate knew, were worth preserving, even if it meant keeping your distance.

Out here, respect for the wild was a pure kind of love.

The fading sun does cast its amber glow,
Across the hills where silent shadows grow.
The restless winds weave whispers through the sage,
As time turns yet another desert page.
A horseman rides beneath the endless sky,
His heart as wild as hawks that circle high.
The stars awake to guard the night’s still breath,
Their light a balm against the thought of death.
He hums a tune as soft as twilight’s veil,
A fleeting song along the canyon trail.

The western wind was crisp and full of song,
It whispered through the grass, so deep and strong.
The cowboy rode with hat pulled low and wide,
A thousand miles had passed beneath his stride.
The sun had set, the stars began to show,
Their silver light as soft as falling snow.
The dust beneath his boots would tell the tale,
Of where he’d been and where he’d yet to sail.
The night was still, the coyotes called their tune,
As moonlight painted shadows ‘neath the dune.

The horses stamp their hooves in gentle beat,
While coyotes’ cries resounded in the heat.
The cowboy’s eyes were fixed upon the stars,
His thoughts as distant as the moonlit scars.
The winds grew cold, and night began to bite,
Yet in his heart, there burned a steady light.
The land was vast, and silence stretched for miles,
But his soul, he carried countless trials.
The trail was long, yet still he pressed ahead,
A weary heart, but not a soul misled.

The dawn was breaking, painting skies with red,
While sleepy hills rose softly from their bed.
The cowboy rode, his hat still pulled down low,
His thoughts as distant as the winds that blow.
The cattle grazed beneath the rising sun,
And in the distance, echoes had begun.
The trail was clear, but doubts still filled his mind,
Of things he’s lost, and those he’ll never find.
Yet through the dust, his heart remained alive,
And with each mile, he felt his spirit thrive.

The drive is done, the cattle are all safe,
With weary hearts, we head towards our fate.
The home range calls, where mountains meet the sky,
Where rolling hills and pastures greet the eye.
Where the firelight dances on those open plains,
As we ride through the night, relieved of reins.
The stars above, a guide to lead us home,
Where once again, our spirits freely roam.
The dawn will break, revealing land so grand,
Our cherished home, this rugged, timeless land.

They smile and nod, raise their glasses in empty salutes.

It’s always a pat on the back, a nod of approval, a fleeting grin that never reaches the eyes.

They like you, you see, for your jokes, your stories, as they pour you a drink and laugh at the correct times.

But when the lights dim and the crowd thins, there’s no one to hold you, no one saying your name like it means something.

You’re the life of the party, the joker in the deck, but no one knows your fears, the scars you hide beneath your skin.

They like you, sure, but love?

Love’s for the poets, the broken, the ones who bleed openly, who bare their souls and find solace in each other’s arms.

You’re the friend, the reliable one, the listener, but never the lover.

You’ve learned to drink the night away, filling the void with whiskey and smoke, watching the moon rise alone, wondering if anyone sees the real you.

They see what they want, a reflection of themselves, never the cracks, the fragments of a heart that doesn’t mend.

You’ll smile and nod, raise your glass in empty salutes, knowing the likes will fade and the loveless nights stretch on.

But there’s a fire in you, a stubborn flicker that refuses to die, waiting for the one who’ll see past the facade, who’ll love you not for the laughs but for the silent nights, the quiet battles, the truth in your eyes.

Until then, you’ll get liked but never loved.

The friend but never the beloved, drifting through the haze, hoping, dreaming, that someday, someone will see the man behind the mask.

They had the same birth date—except for the year—the same name, the same blood type, and were in the same hospital room. It was no wonder the mix-up happened.

The college girl glared at the doctor. “How could you screw up this bad?”

The housewife, lying in the bed next to her, added her two cents. “Yeah, seriously. I’ve got PTA tonight, and now I look like I’m auditioning for Real Housewives of BFE!”

The doctor’s face was the color of a boiled lobster. “I—I assure you, this kind of error is extremely rare. One in a million. My credentials—”

“Credentials?” the college girl interrupted, throwing a hand up. “Buddy, you stapled her name to my boobs! You call that credentials?”

“Technically,” the doctor said, his voice cracking, “it’s called a misdirected tissue transfer.”

The housewife snorted. “Misdirected? She looks like a Baywatch lifeguard, and I look like I belong in an eighth-grade swim team. This isn’t a misdirect. This is a freaking GPS fail.”

“How long do I have to stay like this?” the college girl demanded.

“Uh,” the doctor said, mopping sweat off his brow with a prescription pad, “until you heal. About a month.”

“A month?” she shrieked. “I can’t go to class like this! My sorority sisters will die.”

“And I,” said the housewife, pointing a trembling finger at her chest—or, more accurately, her non-chest—“have lived my whole life flat, and now I’m in the negative. This isn’t a trade-up, Doc. This is a trade down. And she’s got my tits.”

“I don’t want them!” the college girl shouted. “They’re pointy! I look like Madonna in the ‘80s.”

“Oh, excuse me,” the housewife shot back. “Those ‘pointy’ boobs fed three children, thank you very much. You’re lucky they’re still perky.”

The doctor took a deep breath. “Ladies, please! I’ve already sent a memo to the hospital board about this.”

“A memo?” the college girl said, incredulous. “What, you gonna CC us? ‘Dear patients, my bad, enjoy your new boobs’? I want a refund!”

The housewife sighed. “I want a martini. And maybe a training bra.”

Sundews are plants that trap prey in sticky hairs on their leaves. Long tentacles protrude from their leaves, each with a sticky gland at the tip. The droplets look like dew glistening in the sun. The glands produce powerful adhesives to trap and enzymes to digest their prey.

Autumn will forever haunt my memory, should I live long enough. Though the days grew shorter and the evenings brought a chill to the air, it was neither the encroaching winter nor the solitude of the countryside that unsettled my spirit.

It is what happened four days ago in the remote valley below Virginia City, which has left an indelible mark on my soul. In the heart of that desolate landscape, where the rolling hills seem cloaked in a perpetual shroud of mist, there is a pasture known to the locals as a place of peculiar happenings.

A rancher spoke in hushed tones of strange occurrences and inexplicable phenomena, but in my naive arrogance, I dismissed his tale as mere superstition. With this mindset, I ventured into the valley one blustery morning, determined to prove the old legends false.

The wind howled through the trees, sending leaves skittering across the ground like restless spirits. As I made my way to the pasture, a sense of unease settled over me, though I stubbornly pressed on.

What I witnessed that day defied all logic and reason, plunging me into a nightmare I failed to awaken from. I must now recount the horrors I endured in the hope that someone might understand the gravity of my plight.

And so, I write this letter as a man confined not by walls but by dread. It has been four days since I last stepped outside, and I fear I may never do so again. The creature that awaits me—a thing of leaves—has claimed my freedom, and I am helpless against it.

It began when I ventured into the pasture despite the wind tugging insistently at my coat. I saw the flock of sheep grazing peacefully below, their shepherd guiding them with care. The valley seemed untouched by the strange force stirring the air. But then, I noticed a carpet of leaves rolling in the distance, caught in an unnatural current.

As I watched, the leaves lifted from the earth and spiraled upward, transforming into a cyclone of color. It grew taller, more menacing, and descended upon the shepherd and his flock. The vortex swallowed the man and his scream, consuming half the sheep, with the rest fleeing in a terrified stampede.

The sight rooted me in place, my heart pounding in my chest. But when the leaves began moving toward me—toward the hillside where I stood—I found the strength to run. I ran faster than ever back to the safety of my home, slamming and bolting the door behind me.

The creature did not follow me inside but made its presence known. All night, I heard the leaves scratching at my door, scraping against the windows, circling the house as if testing for weakness. When I dared to peek outside, the yard held leaves of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows, an impossibility since my yard is treeless.

Since then, I have remained trapped. Each time I glance through the window, it is there—a shifting, writhing mass of leaves waiting for me to make a mistake. My food is running low, but hunger is nothing compared to the terror of stepping outside.

What the thing wants or why it has chosen me, I have not a clue, but I feel its malice, its intent to devour. I am writing this, hoping that someone will understand what has happened, though I cannot expect anyone to believe me.

There is a monster here, and it will not let me leave. If I am never again seen, know I did not go of my own accord.