Appearing as a smallish, dark spot on the wall in front of her, without her glasses, Edeana Winters couldn’t tell what it was. Then it moved.

Spider. And while she didn’t fear of them, she didn’t like them.

Her mind raced to a piece of trivia she’d learned years before, ‘We swallow at least nine spiders in over our life time while we sleep.’ She shuddered at the thought.

“How the hell does anyone know that?” she laughed, adding, “We’re supposedly asleep when it happens.”

Since she was sitting on the commode, in the dark and only half-awake, she unceremoniously wadded up some toilet paper and pounced. She had it bunched in the paper before it knew what had happened.

Next Edeana pushed the paper between her thighs, then turned on the seat and flushed. Feeling better, she returned to the task at hand, peeing and getting back to bed.

As she gathered another wad of paper, she felt a strange sensation move across her right butt-cheek. She stood up, flipping on the light to see what had caused it.

To her fright, a spider, the size of her hand, had crawled out of the sewer line and try as she might, she could not flush it down the drain. She quickly left the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Beneath the doorway, she could see the shadow of the spider, crawling, testing to see if it could escape. At seeing this, Edeana Winters decided she’d be better off sleeping elsewhere for the night and the Clown Motel was only a mile down the road.

It’s  hard knowing that someone I’ve known since the mid-70’s, and who is a year younger than me, has passed away. Dave and I used to run track together and that’s where I first met him.

We ran for the Del Norte Track Club, run by Dee Sullivan, out of Crescent City as well as our high school track team. We were both sprinters and long jumpers.

In 1979, David set the school record in the 100 meter dash, eclipsing my record in the 100 yard dash from the year previous. They changed from ‘yards’ to ‘meters’ that year, making the race about nine and a third yards longer than it had been.

As I was perusing through Facebook, I learned he had passed away following a heart attack while working out. I sat there re-reading the post made by his brother Daniel, and I started crying.

After taking a couple of days to process his death in my heart and in my mind, I reached out to Dan and asked if I might help him by writing David’s obituary.  He granted me the honor…

David Anthony LeVeque was born on July 15, 1961 in Ridgecrest, California, passing away in Dubai, UAE on June 18, 2020, where he was working and living.  A gifted athlete, David played football, basketball and ran track-and-field all four-years, before graduating from Del Norte High School in 1979.

Following school, David went on to establish himself in the entrepreneurial field, where he earned the nickname, ‘Master of the Deal,’ by those he brought together in business.  He also owned and operated ‘Prince Engineering’ and ‘Prince Transport,’ before selling both and embarking on his life-long dream of world travel.

David is survived by his mom, Lucy Gonsalves; wife, Darla; and children, Christy, Debbie, Katie, Ryan and Stephen.  He also leaves behind sisters, Loretta (Paul) and Lisa (David;) brothers, Eddie (Martina,) Charles (Jennifer,) Jason, James and Daniel (Cynthia,) and 13 grandchildren.

The Go-Fund-Me page, “David Anthony LeVeque Memorial Scholarship Fund,” has been established for deserving students attending Del Norte High School.

David had a natural capacity for leadership and he demonstrated this ability, both on the playing field and off. I am so happy to have called him friend and I will continue to do so until my final breath.

I’d brood over The Dixie Chicks changing their name to The Chicks, but it seems they’ve already hatched that one.

She asked me to write a romance story…

It was the gray largest wolf I had ever seen in my life, the size of a smaller Shetland pony.  I only saw it for a couple of seconds, before it disappeared into the wood line ahead of me.

Reflecting back on the sighting, I realized something about the animal was off, perhaps unnatural, maybe nature, an accident or purposeful. At any rate, it was missing its tail.

As I rested by the trail from where I had first seen the beast, I realized that I was no longer alone. I suddenly felt a heavy panting breathe steaming at my left shoulder.

Without moving my head, I slowly lifted my hand to my shoulder and touched the bearded jaw of the wild dog. And though a chill shuddered its way through my body, I remained calm and gently scratched at the hairy patch that was slightly over and above my shoulder.

It groaned gently and laid down next to me, exposing it’s furry underside. I rubbed it’s belly.

The creature slowly transformed into a petite woman, white haired and brown body. We made love on that trail from where I first saw her, without a single word passing our lips.

The wood shed was visited rarely, was weather beaten and had begun to slide into disrepair. The previous winter rains and spring wind had knocked the old building from its foundation and the process had been made easier by the fact that what was stored in it was stacked away haphazardly.

George Nilsen decided to remedy the situation by fixing the thing up and reorganizing the items stored in it. It was a slow process as first he needed to empty the building of several plastic containers, unused camping gear, old records and cassette tapes, misfit plates and silverware, an old couch, chair and side table, all of which sat collecting dust.

With the unloading of the stored items and following a week, the building was back on it’s proper foundation, and George began to return the previously stored items to their place. He looked at each piece he returned, making certain to take care to keep the interior properly balanced.

One curious item drew his immediate attention; a small red wooden box labeled “Små guder,”and a tiny lock holding it closed. “What is that? Norwegian?” he asked himself, thinking back to a book he’d once read to his now grown son, as a young child.

The lock, no bigger than a half-dollar, made of a cheap aluminum was easy to remove. George set it aside, once he’d gotten it of the box.

The box contained a set of antique ventriloquist dummies, that he’d forgotten about. It had belonged to his friend Casey Johansen, who’d disappeared two years previously.

He tried to recall how he came to be in possession of the dummies. Nothing came to mind.

“Like it simply appeared out of nowhere.”

When he lifted the lid, he felt a chilly breeze rush over his entire body.

“Perhaps, it’s the weather change we’re expecting this weekend.”

With the possibility of rain on it’s way, George hurriedly returned the remainder of the items back to the shed and barred it shut. He’d return once the sun had a chance to dry things out, and since it was the high desert of Nevada, he knew it wouldn’t take long.

The following day, as he sipped his morning’s coffee, he saw that the shed was open.

“I know I put the bar in place,” he told himself and he walked out and reapplied the length of wood.

Come the next morning, it was open again. He searched around the building, in the damp earth for foot-prints.

None were to be seen.

This time he looked inside the shed. There he found the red box with the ventriloquist’s dummies slightly out of place.

Since he’d broken the lock when he forced it open, it wasn’t secure, so opening it was less of an effort. There he found both dummies gone.

Angry, George was certain that someone had entered the shed with out his knowledge and had stolen the pair of dummies. As he turned to leave, he was struck in the head and his world quickly went dark.

By the time he regained consciousness, it was dark and he was hanging from the center beam of the shed, upside down and trussed up like a feral hog for slaughter. He could hear and see no one as he struggled against the ropes that held him.

Then somewhere from behind, he heard the high chanting of voices of what believed were children’s voices and smelled the harsh aroma of a wet wood fire. George wiggled until he was turned, so he might see what was happening.

To his shock and fright, he saw the two dummies moving about a small blaze with a miniature kettle with a boiling liquid steaming from it.

“What the…” he uttered, his voice trailing off from the shock.

Both dummies looked his way, grinning their odd frozen show-like smiles, then returned to their chanting and what looked to be, to George, a ritual dance. With his blood congregating in his head, he passed out once again.

Awaking, this time he found himself, wet, cold and centered over the kettle. It took him a few minutes, amid his struggle to get free, to realize that the kettle had grown in size.

“…or am I smaller?”

Since he could neither hear, nor see the dummies, he thought that perhaps they had abandoned him. But then he felt the slip of the rope that held him about the legs and knew he was about to drop into the still-steaming cauldron of brackish fluid.

He plunged into the liquid. It was warm, thick and sticky, and he was certain that he was going to drown as he held his breathe.

As fine bubbles began to issue from his lips, and knowing he was losing the battle with his lungs, he was quickly raised and this time he saw his two minute agitators. They were hastily dousing the flames and removing the kettle.

In it’s place, that dragged the box that one held the pair. In it, he saw another figure, a woman, bent at the middle and folded to fit in the cut-out that had once held one of the two dummies that were now preparing him for the same fate.

Though he tried to struggle, George discover his body was limp and practically useless. He screamed hoarsely as they dropped him without onto his back and without ceremony into the padded box, roughly arranged him, folding him at his middle, his legs over his head, and face poking out from between his shins.

In place, he saw the lid as it slapped shut and listened as the lock he had busted, and now repaired was clicked into place. He heard the pair speaking in muffled tones and giggling as they left the shed.

“Who’re you?” George Nilsen choked, his voice thick and clumsy while becoming less and less.

A long ragged draw of breath and gurgle was all that could be heard with nothing more than continuous darkness and silence following.

It was jus’ a short trip, time-wise, as I wanted to take a few pictures of how Mid-town Reno is coming along after the beginning of the COVID-19 stuff. I hadn’t even turned my camera one when I was yelled at for not wearing a face mask.

No wanting the woman and the guy with her to continue haranguing me, so I pulled my mask from my pocket and proceeded to put it on. This didn’t go well as I have a mask that displays the Eagle, Globe and Anchor of the US Marine Corps.

More yelling and screaming ensued and I decided that I should head back to my truck. Neither person would make that an easy venture as they followed, hollering and cursing at me for the image on my mask.

Then, no more than 20-feet from my truck, the woman raced up and shoved me hard in the back. Caught off guard, I fell, but because of my martial arts background, I rolled right-shoulder-to-feet and popped up.

Both were right there to continue their harassment. I backed away in attempt to keep the peace and to keep an eye on the pair.

She rushed at me again. This time I was facing her and I stepped to my left and thrust my arm straight out, palm open, smashing her in the face.

Her momentum carried her body out from under her head, which had come to a sudden and sickening stop at the end of my arm, She dropped like a sack of wet cement on the asphalt, bouncing her head off the ground in the process.

She did not get up.

With that her male companion started screeching about ‘not hitting a woman.’ As he did this, he rushed me, throwing wild punches, hoping one would connect with me and hurt me.

Ducking to my right and then spinning in the same direction, I popped up over his left shoulder and when he turned to face me, I cracked open his nose with my right elbow. He dropped, still conscious and but screaming in pain.

Not wanting to wait to be the victim of another attack, I drop to the police station and reported what had happened. I had to sit and wait for an officer to check on the situation, the people and the scene.

While he found blood drops on the ground, he could find no one willing to press charges or anything. Fortunately for me, a business across the way caught the entire incident on their security camera and I have been sent home to wait for further action, if any is to be taken.

My wife said it best, “Trouble seems to follow you like a little dust devil.”

They shouldn’t have done what they did and now, I’m sitting here wondering if I’ll have to pay for their actions. I’ll have to keep you posted.

Malone Davis loved to surf, but he had accepted a job on the morning side of the Sierra, slightly east of Reno, Nevada and had to leave his ocean side home in Santa Barbara, California. Soon though, he discovered wind-surfing.

His favorite place had been Lake Tahoe, but it proved crowded and with self-quarantine, social distancing and COVID-19 a big deal, he chose a small body of water. Washoe Lake was ideal.

It was man-made and filled with winter run-off. It was also shallow, so at six-foot tall, Malone could stand on it’s soft, silty bottom and still keep his head above water.

He even decided to try wind-surfing at night, under the full moon. It was an off-shoot of the sport that he’d only heard about, but hadn’t seen anyone else doing.

“I could write a little piece on it, and submit it to a magazine,” he told his friend, Jimmy, who seemed genuinely interested in joining him for the outing.

The next full moon came and Jimmy had to beg off as his girlfriend’s parents had come into town from South Dakota, unannounced.

“Man,” Jimmy said, “I can’t get away tonight.”

“That’s alright, I’m still gonna go.”

“You shouldn’t go out by yourself.”

“What could happen?”

“You never know,” Jimmy answered.

“Yeah, well I used to swim with Great Whites,” Malone said off-the-cuff, “Besides, I got an article to write.”

Out on the lake, a dying wind carried him gently back and forth across the water, but once the sun disappeared beyond Slide Mountain, the zephyr fell away leaving Malone standing on his board in dead calm water. More than a little frustrated with his failed effort, he dropped from the board and into the pulpy lake bottom.

As he walked through the alluvium deposit, his foot touched something large. At first Malone thought it might was a piece of wood or perhaps a rock, but then it painfully clamped down on his foot, above the ankle, then jerked hard, yanking him below the now-muddy surface.

Malone, who still clung to his board, resurfaced, sputtering, gagging and coughing, struggled to climb onto it. But it became impossible as more and more of the sinister forms affixed themselves to his still dangling legs.

And as he lost his grip on his board, and a mere second before he dipped one final time below the lake’s once-glassy surface, he saw what had him in a death grip, dozens of the rough-shelled desert oysters. The archaic brachiopods refused to release Malone Davis, their newly found meal.

Monday morning, state park rangers found his van and ticketed it, for failing to pay for the extra day use. It wasn’t until that afternoon, when he’d been reported missing, that they located his board on the southeast side of the lake and shreds of a wet suit, still in the water, but nothing else.

Peggy passed away on May 10, 2020. She was born in Crescent City, California on December 13, 1955 to John and Eleanor McMillan. She grew up on the McMillan ranch in Klamath, with sister Kathy and brother Brian.

One summer, when she was 15 or 16-years-old, Peggy was our babysitter. Her style was too keep us very busy and entertained by doing small backyard skits, building forts in the house, drawing, painting and coloring, playing board games, and especially taking us on hikes up behind our home and into the Redwoods she loved so much.

Shortly after leaving the Air Force in 1980, I went to work  at McKay’s Grocery Store in Crescent City, where Peggy was a register jockey and I swept and mopped floors. Customers and co-workers loved her because she was always happy — laughing and smiling.

Peggy also encouraged me to keep the lines of communication open when it came to my folks during their divorce. She said over and over that, “One day, it’ll become important.”

I should’ve listened to her advice.

Her passing hurts my heart, not only because it proves I’m getting closer to that inevitable day, but more so that the world has lost a wonderful person in Peggy.

It was a fair piece of asphalt between Cheyenne  to San Francisco and to ride the bus made it the perfect adventure for Jesse Costa. He’d traveled the many by-ways across the good ol’ U.S. of A., the same way he was traveling now.

Always in the same seat, the ones on the right, jus’ before the back tire’s wheel-well. It’s where Jesse felt the most calm, because it soothed his OCD and the tires hum and drone made it easier to fall asleep.

This didn’t mean that he might not move elsewhere on the bus as they slipped down the road into the sunset and deeper into the night. It jus’ meant that for now he was comfortable and might even get a few z’s before their next scheduled stop in Rock Springs.

The bus always stopped in Rock Springs. It’s where it took on more fuel and the passengers had a chance to have a real meal, and not simply the snacks provided at the smaller stops.

It’s also where the couple stumbled aboard the half-full bus. Jesse could tell that there was trouble amidst the pair.

She was plain, a petite blond, and could be pretty if given the chance. He was tall, rangy in stature, smelling of stale cigarettes, sweat and cheap booze, with shoulder length greasy hair.

Jesse put the thought aside as the bus moved back out onto Interstate 80. Before he realized it, the sun was gone and the dark was becoming more and more pronounced.

Dream-filled sleep crowded Jesse’s head again, but for how long he’d been asleep, he did know. What he did know was that he could hear a woman crying and it wasn’t from happiness.

Looking around, he studied the faces of the passengers, which were drawn tight, nervous and in some cases pale. He also detected the musky odor of fear.

Then he heard it. That sharp snap of a face being struck.

He turned in his seat. Greasy-hair was berating the blond, calling her names and when she dripped a tear, he struck her.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Greasy-hair growled at Jesse as he watched the man’s behavior.

“Nothing,” Jesse replied.

“Then mind yer own business.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Jesse stood and in three steps reached Greasy-hair’s seat. Without a word, he reach down and grabbed the abuser by the throat and squeezed.

The violent and sudden closure of his windpipe left the man unable to speak or breathe. In a low growl, he said, “Hit her again or make any other sound and I’ll toss your ass off this bus and I won’t be using the door. Got it?”

The man, wide-eyed, shook his head rapidly.

“Now go sit in the front of the bus and stay the hell away from her for the rest of your trip.”

He released Greasy-hair, who flopped back in his seat, then quickly got up, coughing and pale, and slipped past Jesse, towards the front of the bus. He dropped hard in the second seat from the front, behind the driver.

Jesse looked at the driver in his rear-view passenger mirror and the driver smiled. As for Jesse, he simply went back to his seat and slipped into sleep.

In his dreams he returned to his wilder days, running with his pack, when Jesse Costa was their silver-haired Alpha and not jus’ another lone wolf traveling the roadways of America.

From now on, Quaker Oats shall be known as Shaquille O’atmeal.