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.

I’m putting up a chain-link fence to keep mosquitoes out of my yard while wearing a face-mask to keep myself safe from viruses.

You know it’s the truth when Facebook blocks it, Twitter deletes it, and YouTube bans it.

Where does a story come from? Went to the store. Bought a bag of dog food. Came home. Saw a picture of a friend’s new tiny puppy ‘Poco Diablo,’ a supposedly messy little terror…and Voilà! 

“I didn’t take you literally, when you said, ‘it takes a village.’ I thought you meant everyone pitching in to help out.”

“They did pitch in and they were all a big help.”

“But the entire village?”

“Yes, feeding my hell-hound puppy ain’t easy.”

“Neither is explaining what happened to a whole village.”

“Don’t worry, that’s what legends and myths are for.”

Only he knew what he had done. Marcus released the deadly virus into the environment accidentally.

He spent the next three-years working on a way to rectify his mistake. Nothing Marcus found had any effect on the continuing pandemic he’d caused.

Finally, he began to think beyond ‘flattening the curve.’ Instead, Marcus started working on a radical theory, that if successful, would not only flatten it, but end it altogether.

During the seventh-month of the fourth year, Marcus climbed into his invention, knowing what must be done and vanished.

The capsule vibrated violently and the multitude of lights, with their random bursts of colors, were disorientating for him, but the thing worked. Marcus arrived safely, destroying the capsule where it had landed, before proceeding to his laboratory.

Four-years earlier, Marcus confronted himself and as planned, shot and killed himself. He didn’t feel a thing as he blinked out of existence, smoking pistol still in hand, and all the while thinking, “Whaddya know, Einstein was right.”