After reading the story, “57 Reasons for the Slate Quarry Suicides,” by Sam J. Miller, I ruminated  on how lovely the shorter sentence and chapter was…

Chapter 1.
It was 2:23.
A Wednesday morning.
They said I was there, but cannot remember.
My other-self went away as if he’d never been there in the first place.

Chapter 2.
Living outside of town.
Fell from the couch.
Fell from the stairs.
No injuries, but life is dangerous.

Chapter 3.
We’ve been kicked out.
Taking a ship to America.
Wind, rain, emergency evacuation drills.
The fire engine has been left behind to rust.

Chapter 4.
Another member has joined the party.
He cries constantly.
I don’t mind it though.
It is nice to have the company.

Chapter 5.
Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.

Chapter 6.
So many new faces.
So much hostility.
Frightening and I want to go home.

Chapter 7.
She made me slide into first base to see what hand would be my dominant.
One-hundred words and one hundred percent.
A red ribbon made of yarn tied like a bow.
This could be a beginning — if only I knew to what.

Chapter 8.
There was blood, looks and stares, but I held my tongue.
I cannot speak, though I know I have a voice.
Another will have to drag it out out of me.
Yet another member has joined the party.
A real screamer.

Chapter 9.
Oceans and Indians and Little House on the Prairie.
Nothing adds up now.

Chapter 10.
I’ve lost my marbles and have paid the price in punishments
With a final member coming into the tribe, the council, where we collectively have no true voice.
My pen and paper are my only comforts.
The harsh clickity-clacks of a gifted type-writer are like music to the soul.

Chapter 11.
A true loneliness has set in as I see the world and our inhabitants for what they are and may become.
Like newspaper, I am shred into strands of isolation.
I cannot discover where or how I fit into this hodgepodge.
Take a picture, it lasts longer – but is also so expensive.

Chapter 12.
She was victimized and not one authority cared.
I am ostracized for trying to give her comfort and aid.
Now she’ disappeared.
And now I know how the Native’s felt, smoke the peace pipe and then to be tricked into a battle.

Chapter 13.
Rallied others in acts of vandalism and then cast out.
Damaged the little red books beyond repair and planted them in a garden and under a row of trees. Fertilizer.
The ladies in black are firmer and I find myself terrified all the time.
I am searching for my irony.

Chapter 14.
A triumphant return, it was not, for not a single person missed me.
I am regarded as the outsider.
They think it is a punishment.
Good for me as I did not wish a circus or parade.

Chapter 15.
A change in prison walls as I face down more internal fears.
One of many, apart from all.
Books and words are a refuge.
It is easy to hide in a library when remaining quiet.

Chapter 16.
I have struck off on my own.
Chasing down that less-than ten second mark.
She loves me, she loves me not.
Not.
Watched a classmate burned himself up on whiskey, speed and gasoline.

Chapter 17.
More of the same, only with a greater confidence.
A greater speed, at which I peaked.
Funny how I don’t really care what they think of me.
Not certain if my mouth overloads my brain or visa versa.
This universe needs new leaders and I’d like to be one.

Chapter 18.
My biggest troubles are self caused.
Perhaps self-loathing are an inbred trait.
There are no rewards in life for doing wrong and I’ve been wrong a lot even when doing right.
Perhaps this final youthful summer will bring that need change.
Rain is the first component of a lovely Spring.

Chapter 19.
A big push into an ever larger change, this one a life-time in the making.
I have never liked change.
And home never looked so small.
The Greyhound seat is cold and hard as I head for that great Gateway.
It is only six-years into the future.

Inspired by a photographic image of Godzilla wading ashore at Crescent City, California, near Battery Point Lighthouse.

The lighthouse was situated  some 20 nautical miles west and north of the nearest seaport, slightly short of the great drop into the inky depths of the Pacific’s cold waters. It had been there since 1895 and had served its purpose well.

On some nights though, when thick fog and heavy, crashing seas were met on the large sea-stack that formed the foundation of the lighthouse, strange sounds could be heard emanating from that great depth. It were as if something were answering the deep bellow of the fog horn that sounded through the impenetrable darkness, and responding to the accompanying rotation of its bright glow and magnified by the polish of the Fresnel lens.

The three keepers, who rotated shifts of two-weeks each, told one another that it was merely imagination, set upon each man while in lonely isolation. That is until the youngest of the keepers, a Josh Breedon, lived through a waking nightmare.

One-hundred and twenty-two, that was the number of steps to the platform that housed the lens, as Breedon banged upward and out onto the catwalk, to enjoy a smoke, taking in the night’s breeze. The fog lay high, having yet to drop to sea level, giving him an unvarnished view of the blackened expanse that lay miles before him.

At first, Breedon believed he was watching the undulating movement of a large whale as it passed by and then circled the rocky platform. But soon it occurred to the youthful observer that he was looking at a massive body, perhaps three-times that in size of any ordinary whale.

Further, he believed that he could not only hear the darkened form reverberating, “Voquulo Zaa-q’ran,” as if in answer to the fog horns blast, but he could feel it’s subsonic vibrations racing through the stony tower. As the thing called back, it continued to circle the lone edifice until it was nearly making contact with its base.

By then the fog had started its majestic decent to the top of the waves, making it hard for the light keeper to fully fathom what was happening below. It was the sight of a large green head with red glowing eyes and tentacle like appendages, captured momentarily in the flash of the rotating lamps glare, that caused Breedon to rapidly retreat from the outer deck.

With that horrendous head came the deep bellow “Voquulo Zaa-q’ran,” in response to the continuing boom of the horn, followed by a webbed claw, reaching for the frightened man, now racing down the metal steps, heavy boots clanging, speeding for the safety of the ground floor. The entire thing shook with a great upheaval of violence, as he dashed to the safety of the machine room below the structure.

Breedon dived beneath a concrete work bench as the water-locked monument shuddered, crumbling around and over him. It would be two days before rescuers arrived to begin the task of digging the light keeper from his place of interment.

When asked what caused destruction, Breedon gave no answer. Eventually it was agreed that the ancient construct had suffered structural failure.

Replaced by a buoy, that emitted an electronic signal, a fog horn and bobbed at the end of a long, thick steel cable attached to the ocean bottom, the days of the lighthouses and the lighthouse keeper started coming to a close. Breedon found this acceptable as he remained too frightened to speak of that thing which befell the old lighthouse.

Instead, he moved to the 24-hour beacon of neon lights and the crashing coinage of the one-armed bandit, which line the streets of the many towns of Nevada. And it was amid this cacophony that Josh Breedon heard the familiar echo of  high desert, but failed to recognize its voice.

As I walked through the grocery store I finally found where they keep the tubes of ready-to-bake biscuits. They were no where near the milk or butter, but way down beyond the eggs, near the yogurt.

As I stood looking over the vast selection, I was surprised by one of the tubes as it exploded. Startled as the end of the tin came flying at me, I jumped back, tripped and fell on my ass.

Unknown to me at the time, a lady shopping at the other end of the aisle heard the pop and witnessed me fall on my backside. She immediately raced for the front of the building to report an ‘active shooter.’

In the meantime, I stood up, looked around to see if anyone saw me get stupid, dusted myself off and proceeded to select a tube. Once at the checkout stand, I was forced to wait about an hour outside while the police searched for a ‘possible shooter,’ which put the store into a lock down situation.

After a while, one officer asked me to come with him to the main office. He showed me a video tape of myself hitting the floor. There was no denying the fact that the guy on the closed-circuit TV was me, so he asked and I explained what happened.

The majority of the cops present laughed, others sighed and the Sergeant grumbled impolitely as he left the office. Finally, with no ‘active shooter’ found, the all-clear was given and I was able to buy the biscuits for $2.29.

Now that I’m home, I’ve begun wondering if the dough is really trying to kill me or not, as I was jus’ laughing about the situation at the store and nearly choked on the bite of biscuit in my mouth.

Telling a man that you already have a ‘man’ won’t stop him from hitting on you, but telling him that you used to be a man…

Being popular on social media is like being Monopoly money rich.

Had sex for an hour and 40 seconds last night! Thanks Daylight Savings Time!

My wife said, and I quote, “I didn’t have enough time last night to set our clocks back an hour.”

Former Nevada lawmaker John Moore’s brief alignment with the Libertarian Party unraveled in 2016, not over a misunderstanding, but over what party officials and critics described as a fundamental conflict between his voting record and the principles he sought to represent.

Instead of standing up to the GOP leadership in the Nevada Assembly, Moore switched his party registration to Libertarian in January 2016 and launched a re-election campaign under the new banner. However, his legislative record from the 2015 session quickly became a point of contention.

Among the most cited issues is Moore’s involvement in the Sandoval tax package, one of the largest tax increases in Nevada history. Although he initially opposed the measure in committee, you ultimately supported elements of the package.

He also backed the Las Vegas Raiders stadium deal, a taxpayer-supported project widely criticized by libertarians as corporate welfare. Additionally, his perceived support for public safety tax measures, including the so-called “More Cops” tax, further fueled concerns within the party.

Libertarian leadership argued that while one’s party affiliation can change quickly, one’s voting record cannot.

Critics said Moore’s shift appeared inconsistent with his prior positions, particularly after campaigning as an anti-tax Republican before rebranding as a Libertarian.

The Libertarian National Committee had contributed $10,000 to Moore’s campaign, raising the stakes of the dispute. As concerns mounted, party officials moved to distance themselves.

In 2016, the Libertarian Party formally and unanimously censured Moore and withdrew its support, citing a lack of alignment with core principles. The political fallout was reflected at the ballot box, as Moore finished third in his race, receiving roughly 7% of the vote.

The episode drew comparisons to fellow Republican lawmaker James Settelmeyer, who remained in his party and voted against the $1.5 billion tax package. While Settelmeyer’s record did not fully align with libertarian priorities, he did not seek the Libertarian label or its backing.

Party officials and observers said the distinction proved decisive. Moore’s critics argued that by seeking to represent Libertarian ideals without a consistent record to support them, he left himself vulnerable to the backlash that ultimately ended his bid.

One of the women that I work with, and who sits behind me, was giggling through much of our shift. Near the end of our workday, she began outright laughing.

You must know this: she self-describes as a ‘Black person.’ I self-describe as ‘pasty.’

“What are you laughing about?” I had asked.

She pointed to her earphones and continued laughing, before finally answering, “Eddie Griffin — he’s killing me!”

She turned back and laughed some more. By this time she had the entire room chuckling because she is generally so quiet and unassuming.

Then she looked back at me and said aloud, “I love racist jokes!”

Nearly everyone fell about with laughter of their own. Her honesty caught many off guard and that made it even funnier.

I responded, laughingly, “Why, so do I!”

Another woman, also Black, sitting across from the laughing woman looked directly at me and stated flatly: “Oh, I bet you do!”

While smiling at her, I began laughing like Eddie Murphy from ‘Beverly Hills Cop.’ As she looked away, laughter erupted.

Our supervisor, who was also laughing, eventually had to to tell everybody to settle down.

As I slowed to make the corner, I saw my wife in the turn lane headed in the opposite direction. Each of us had our window rolled down, so we waved vigorously at one another as we’d not seen each other in the past 12-hours.

“I love you!” I shouted as I sped up to match the moving traffic while signaling to merge.

My wife didn’t hear me, but the dude in the large truck did as he shoved his arm out of his window, waved and yelled back, “I love you, too!”

I laughed all the way to work.