Work crews were quickly established by the overseers. They made life a living hell for the weak, disabled, the starving, which there was much of the latter days of concentration.

Since he was ‘single,’ he was assigned housing with a female, a girl actually barely 14-years old. He was threatened with violence if he failed to procreate with her by the end of the year.

Meanwhile, she was sickly, terribly frightened and cried for her mother nearly every night. Eventually, she died – possible from starvation or maybe a broken heart – but probably both.

With her death he was transferred to a barracks where other single men lived. It was while confined to this open floor plan that a young man, much larger, stronger and athletic came to live after being reassigned from a different living facility.

Soon, he made it clear that he was the boss within their barracks. And with that, he began stealing the food cubes, a single days ration of nutrients each man was given.

He decided that taking from the preteens and teens was not enough. He began taking the food from some of the older men.

When it happened to him, he let it pass the first time. It was the beating that he was subjected to the second time that convinced him that the bully would not be allowed to get away with his actions.

The third time, he struck the bully so hard in the side of the neck, that the much larger man fell sideways and struck his head on the floor. He lingered for three days before he died.

Took’em nearly half-a-century, but hippies finally managed to get marijuana legalized and haircuts outlawed.

From my disorganized card table writing desk, in a dimly lit room we call the ‘library,’ on a blustery afternoon in May 2020, I am writing. There are a few things on my mind including my wife’s health, my health the Corona Virus, the continued Nevada state lock down to prevent its spread.

Those are the ‘bad’ things caught in the plaque of my aging mind. Other things pushing their way about up top is the fact the both my wife and I are healthy, we have a roof over our heads, good food, clean clothes and each other.

But for right now I’m in another place, my secret tree house, and no, you cannot come and visit with me while I’m here. It is simply for me.

It is where I dream, imagine, work things out in my head. It is my lonely place and no foreigners are served here, because I’m the only one with a passport this this kingdom.

Feeling above it all, I realize that should I climb any higher or move my fort closer to the stars, that I might tumble down, hurt myself. That is how fragile a writers mind is in real life.

You have one of these places, too – I’m sure of this. Only you call it something different and it looks, smell and feels different from mine.

Your tree house might be your dinner table, bed, couch, the attic or basement, an old outbuilding, the bed or cab of your truck, or maybe the table you eat at while on break from your job. And no – I am not allowed, and no one should be allowed entry because you are the only one with the proper papers to gain entry.

Those papers might be a notebook, a piece of typing paper or a computer. It might include a keyboard, a pen, a pencil or all of the above in which you mark passage from your kingdom to the other world, the one that is work-a-day, pedestrian as the upper crush is wont to say, the place were the cracks in the sidewalk or gravel road trips up from time to time.

And while I suspect you, like the hundred others that may or may not read this, I don’t expect a response. All I can hope for, even without knowing the results, is that this inspires you to feel, think and write.

The first days of martial law were difficult. He had spent much of the time prior to the great lock down preparing for that specific eventuality.

Not only did he locate a hiding spot in the hills above and west of their home, he inlaid it with canned foods and bottled water. Elsewhere, he dug a deep hole and using a large plastic construction bucket with a lid, his his families important papers, a few pictures and a number of books, including the family bible.

He had been forced to escape early when soldiers arrived in the neighborhood and began rounding people up. He engaged with them, having fired a couple of shots at them from his rifle, as they loaded his wife and son onto a transport vehicle.

He never saw then after that and he ended up hiding for several days in the small coyote den he’d found earlier. He lived off the canned food and water he had with him as he waited for the soldiers, who had searched three weeks for him, left the area.

Eventually, and in great sadness he started over the hill to the far valley and across the grassy plain of Hungry Valley towards northern California. He intended to pass through Susanville, skirt Redding and make his way to the North Coast, where he had family and friends.

His plan fell through on the sixth day, as he was arrested by a posse and turned over to officials who transported him in shackles to one of their many regional encampments. It would be five-years, give or take a few days, before he would feel the hint of freedom – and by that time, the world had become a very different place.

The guy that stole my identity last week, now wants to give it back.

With my many apologies to Jack London…

The old man sat under his own personal totem. As he did he, watched the ground squirrel he trapped in a loop earlier that day, roast over the open pit fire in front of him.

His stomach growl loudly and he thought, “It is a good thing to feel hungry after a long and hard day.”

“Grandser,” Junior asked, “Will you tell us how you came to your totem?”

“Let me have my meal first, boy,” the old man answered, knowing that his eldest grandson was known for his impatience.

“Sorry, Grandser,” he said, backing out of the plank hut that the old man called his home.

A few minutes later, and before he could finish eating, the children of the Yerington tribe began gathering around him and his fire to hear how the old man came to have the bird head that lived above his padded pallet that double as a seat and his bedding.

The old man made his audience wait as he slowly finished each greasy morsel of the common vermin that he felt fortunate enough to have captured. Like so many times before, Junior kept the youngsters in line as they grew restless for the story.

My wife got me good after I complained about my bad back. She turned it on me, saying, “The front’s pretty screwed up, too.”

UPDATE: US-95 is now open.

Because of my ongoing battle with insomnia, I wasn’t in a deep sleep when it happened. As it did occur, I thought perhaps my wife was rolling over roughly or maybe both dogs had decided to re-situate themselves at the same time.

I was wrong on both counts…

What began as a rolling jerk, ended with a harsh crack coming from somewhere deep in the earth. This was the result of a magnitude 6.5 quake that occurred at 4:03 am, some 35 miles east of Tonopah, Nevada, a rough couple of hundred miles (as the crow flies) north of Spanish Springs, where we live.

So far, very little damage has been reported, other than on US 95, between Coaldale and Mina, after a large fracture was found crossing all lanes of the highway. The road, a main link between Reno and Las Vegas, is closed for the time being as repairs are made.

And thankfully, no injuries or deaths resulted from the ground’s upheaval.

By the way, my wife believes she was also awake at the time, remembering the shaking because she thought I was having another night-terror. As for our dogs, while we were shaking, neither of the little shits stirred a muscle.

Again — where does inspiration come from? Here’s another example.

This time I’m using a prompt-service (#vss365) which provides a daily word to build a story around. In this case, each paragraph is a separate ‘tweet’ (on Twitter) that I’ve built into a near 300-word tale.

Johnny Red Legs crept through the crags to his hide. He needed to learn what was killing his sheep and this moonless night was perfect for the task. The Vietnam vet set up his sight looking down the valley using an old Starlight scope. Soon he saw an orenda-like figure.

The 72-year-old man laid still as the thing moved closer. The brightness of stars in the clear skies made the movement of the odd being startling. Soon Red Legs became aware that ‘orenda‘ might not be the correct description of what he was witnessing. It was too human.

(But…)

As the pale-being drew closer, he could tell it wasn’t at all human. At a certain point the old Marine sniper no longer cared whether it should be considered ‘orenda‘ or not. He touched the trigger of his thirty-aught-six and in-between breaths and heartbeats, squeezed.

Orenda or not, the figure twisted and fell, dropping out of sight. He heard the echo of his rifle’s shot roll down the valley where it was met by the harsh howl of a coyote. Red Legs stayed hidden until sun-rise, and only then did he venture out to see what he’d shot.

It was far more than orenda, Red Legs realized. The pasty, white sheen of empty skin, now hardened like dried paint, was a creation of evil. Then he remembered how Coyote had howled at it’s death, and he knew that his valley was home to an ancient and evil changeling.

“You are speaking of Yee Naaldlooshii,” the medicine woman said, “Navajo, not Paiute or Shoshone. I have never heard of such an orenda this far north.”

She paused, looking to the distant mountains, “Bring me that skin, Johnny and we will rid Hungry Valley of this evil.”

The hamlet, with even cobblestone paths, manicured lawns, trimmed hedges and perfect facades, is idyllic. Flowers bloom everywhere and not one vehicle is in the street.

The air breathes of vanilla-bean, baked-bread, lemon-drops, ocean breezes, and I’m confused, lost.

A woman walks up, “Hello, dear, how did you get here?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer, as she takes my hand, guiding me to a bench under a blue jacaranda tree.

“It’s okay. It happens every once in a while. We have all the time in the world to figure it out.”

Her voice is pleasant, but her skin is chilled.