My wife dragged me to the art gallery to view a traveling Reuben exhibit. I tried to avoid going, but no luck.

“We need some culture in our lives.”

However, she didn’t anticipate looking at painting after painting of curvaceous ladies in the buff. She complained, saying it was unfair that all the nude paintings depicted women.

So jokingly I pointed to an arrow on the wall that read, ‘Men.’ She smiled and hurried off in that direction.

“Honey!” I called out, but I was too slow. Seconds later she found herself standing before the door to the men’s room.

Hawkins broke through the sliding glass door at the back of the old Shipley house, jimmying the plastic frame with a flat-bar and poured gasoline throughout all the rooms, including the garage. He lit a match, threw it and watched the flames flash-over in a single hungry gulp and with a thump that violently reverberated through his entire body.

It felt like ‘pure sex’ to him and it left Hawkins in a euphoric-state of arousal.

He’d been eyeing the place for nearly three-years. The Great Recession had stuck with a fierceness that left many homes vacant, unwanted and ripe for destruction including this one.

In the case of the Shipley house, it caught the ‘double-whammy.’ First the recession brought prices crashing, then Marilyn, already in bad health, died, leaving her home to her daughter, who could do very little with the place amid her own financial struggles.

As the giant dragon threatened to belch and take Hawkins with it, he turned to escape, only to notice a painting of a boy over the faux-mantel. From the boy’s cheerful grin, Hawkins saw that it was clear that the child, whoever he was, had been happy at one time.

The framed-figure reminded him of someone he knew but whom Hawkins could no longer remember. So with the flames building up ever greater behind him, consuming the walls, floors and ceiling, he yanked the boy from the wall and ran with him out the back door.

With the painting propped against the wall behind his front door, Hawkins watched from the safety of his front room’s window as the Shipley place burned to the ground. The torching was so complete, that not even the local fire department could save the structure and instead let it burn, opting to protect the neighboring homes from becoming ash-heaps like it.

And as the house fell in on itself, the painted boy whispered to his savior, “Thank you, I was so lonely.”

For his part, Hawkins smiled, he finally had somebody to talk to.

She found me in the back alley, where I was drowning in affordable rot-gut. She was young, pretty and I tried to ignore her, until she sat down beside me.

“I can guess when you’re going to die,” she offered.

Too wasted to realize she was serious, I laughed at the thought and wondered what sort of scam she was running. Tipping the brown bag up, I took a long draw from the bottle inside.

There was no pain when she drew her knife’s blade across my bare throat. In fact, I didn’t feel a thing but my warm blood.

“Data suggests that it’s over a million years old and has no functional ability.”

“So shattered bits of red carbon-based material is simply floating through the cosmos for no reason?”

“It appears so, ma’am.”

“But why would you say it’s a religious relic?”

“We know sacrifice is a part of the early belief system. The sacrifice of beings in the name of religion happened for thousands of years. And because of this, a few have even argued that the mummified remains…”

“Major Tom, you mean?”

“Yes, ma’am, Major Tom is – or was – a sacrifice to a god named ‘T.’ This is known from the cross-like symbol on the what remains of the crafts forward compartment found amid the debris and this unusual vocalization. Let me play it for you.”

“…Ground Control to Major Tom, take your protein pills and put your helmet on…”

“Furthermore, we’ve learned their golden rule was ‘Don’t Panic.’”

“Then what is the ‘Foundation,’ and what or who is this Issac Asimov?”

“Current theory holds that Asimov is a Prophet and that his mathematically based writings are the underpinnings of this religion, thus ‘Foundation.’

“And so, is ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ and Adam Douglas more teachings of yet another Prophet?

“We believe it maybe supplemental to the original teachings, ma’am, but we’re still analyzing it, and it’s going to take some time due to the fragile nature of the material it’s made from.”

“What about the plaque?”

“A very interesting artifact, indeed. It reads, “Made on Earth by humans.”

“So this space debris or whatever it was – or is – was made by us?”

“Yes, ma’am. And that leaves us with even bigger questions to answer.”

“Like?”

“What’s an Earth, can we find it and is ‘T’ still there?’”

“So damn close to Crescent City, I can almost smell it,” I whined as I stood in the parking lot of the Collier Tunnel rest area. It had been a long journey to here, especially since I was using the least reliable method of transportation available – hitching.

The driver pulled off Highway 199 because I needed to take a crap. “I’ll be quick about it,” I said as I climbed from the passenger seat.

Once finished, I returned to where car I’d been riding in had parked, it was gone. He had left me.

“Asshole!” I screeched.

Stranded, I walked out to the highway and tossed out my thumb hoping to catch another ride. Hour one passed along with at least 200 vehicles — and soon I was nearing the end of hour two.

Looking south through the long tunnel, it did not seem inviting. I hated the idea of having to walk it’s length, but the desire to get home one more time was quickly overriding my sense of caution.

As I stood there contemplating the tunnels entrance, I heard a car’s horn from somewhere behind me. I turned and saw a large-finned 1959 candy-apple red Cadillac pull into the nearby parking lot and the driver’s side passenger door popped open.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, “Don’t Come Around Here No More,” is blasting from the interior. Barely audible over the music, “Hurry! We don’t have all day – in fact we’re already late,” a voice called out to me, adding “Quick, get in!”

Touching the pistol I had secreted in my jacket pocket, I hopped the barrier from the roadway into the parking lot and ran to the car. The tinted windows were darker than what the law allowed so I couldn’t see who was in the front seat, but I could see the cute little blonde in a light blue dress and white pinafore in the backseat, patting it, will me to sit down next to her.

Once inside, the door slammed shut and the driver wheeled the beast of a car around and peeled rubber as he raced out of the parking lot. Gathering my balance, I was finally able to sit up and find the seat belt and as I looked around I couldn’t help but notice the passenger and his odd-looking top hat and severely over-sized bucked-teeth.

That’s when I looked at the driver, who was much too short to safely see over the dash of the vehicle, and saw only a pair of long ears. “Oh, my God,” I thought. “The energizer bunny is driving this thing.”

Yes, it was a rabbit, but instead of being pink, it was pure white, it’s also the moment I discovered that we had entered a rabbit hole. In the darkness of the hole and safety of back seat, the blonde slid close to me.

She took my hand in her hand and placed it gently on her left breast, whispering to me to feel her firmness and eventually her wetness. Instantly, I grew butterflies in my stomach and a hardness in my pants knowing that she wanted me to fuck her brains out.

“Oh, yes,” I smiled like a Cheshire as I penetrated her depth, “All mimsy were the borogoves!”

Payment, I suppose, because as I learned later, there was a Jabberwocky needing slain and I was to be her champion. For now, home would have to wait.

It was an old wine box that I thought my wife would enjoy, but I was wrong. Too late we learned that it was a Dybbuk; able to haunt and even possess the living.

The antique box attacked us endlessly, doing and saying the most vile of things. Finally, last Christmas, without saying a word, I decided to get rid of it.

So, I packaged it up and had it delivered – to myself. My wife couldn’t see the beauty of my plan until the package was left by our front door and stolen by Porch Pirates.

No police report necessary.

Writer Sammi Cox issued a weekend writing prompt using the word, ‘shell,’ in exactly 12-words. I took and met the challenge: “I am but a shell of myself. So clam up, would you?”

I love some of these little exercises.

Out of the blue, the Spirit introduced me to this new guy. Whenever I talk to Him, He gives me advice — a wisdom, unlike anything I’ve ever known.

He’s a fortress, a wall; a shield that protects from all weapons thrown by this cruel life. He has this promise, and I truly know that He’ll never break it.

We talk before bed. At sunrise. Sometimes throughout the day, too.

And every night I cry, He’s been there, hushing me, telling me that everything will be alright. The new guy even gave me the definition of love.

And I thank you.

Six-thirty-six. Carole sighed as she turned from the clock, knowing the sun wasn’t up and she’d been robbed of 24-minutes more sleep.

It felt as if this had happened before, but she was too exhausted to hold onto the thought. Unwilling to surrender those few precious minutes of sleep, she willed herself to lay still, dozing until her bedside alarm sounded.

Carole’s body relaxed, floating as she slipped back into sleep. Suddenly, her body jerked and she was awake.

“Six-thirty-six,” Carole sighed. “Didn’t this happen before?” She still couldn’t awaken from the coma she’d been in for the past three-weeks.

“It never crossed my mind,” I said of the small aircraft that buzzed me earlier in the day. By then though, I was making the trek back to the highway in passenger seat of federal vehicle, though I really didn’t understand why.

It was slightly after sun-up when I pulled my truck onto the side of the road. I could see the rocky cliffs in the distance, those that I had plans to explored throughout the day, hoping to find something of interest to think about.

Dodging sage brush, creosote and the occasional rattlesnake or lizard makes for a pleasant hike into the high desert for this writer. If it isn’t something I have observed then it something I have thought about that generally gives me a subject to expound upon later at my computer.

Today, would prove to be exactly that kind of day.

More than two-hours after beginning, I found a shaded spot and set up my camp stool beneath a jagged rock face. I wanted to sit for a couple of minutes, rest, have some water and do some journaling in the notebook I had in my day-pack.

As I got comfortable, I heard a small aircraft’s engine echoing across the escarpment under which I sat. The next thing I knew, the aircraft a yellow and blue Piper J-3 Cub came in low and slow to the west of me.

He was so low and moving so slowly that I could have tossed a rock at him and struck the aircraft with no problem, something I’d never do unless threatened. I could even see the pilot, his large reflective glasses looking at me as he spoke into the headset wrapped from ear to ear and over his mouth.

Six-pages into thought, including being I buzzed by a plane out in the middle of nowhere, I heard the deep hum of an off-road vehicle. Since I was on public lands, I never gave it a second thought other than to know where my pistol was in the event they were a bunch of hooligans looking to have some ‘rowdy fun.’

It’s been known to happen.

Next thing I know, I have a ‘badged’ officer aiming a pistol at me, demanding I keep my hands in sight. As he walks closer, I realize the man is wearing a Bureau of Land Management uniform.

The agent made me get up and walk backwards to him, orders me to my knees and cuffs my hands behind my back. “What are you doing out here?”

“Jus’ exploring the desert and doing some writing.”

“You do know you’re not supposed to be in the area, right?”

“No, I had no idea.”

“Well, there’s a sign at the trail-head and a couple along the trail letting you know you’re trespassing.”

“I didn’t come in from the trail-head. I walk from the highway about four miles east of here.”

“So what did you say you were doing?”

“Exploring and writing. Will you take these damned handcuffs off me?”

“I don’t believe you. People don’t jus’ go for hikes to write. And no.”

“Well, can I sit on my ass, my knees are killing me. There’s water in the pack – have some — along with a snake pistol.”

“No thank you on the water, but I am gonna confiscate your pistol since you’re trespassing.”

Since he ignored my request to get off my knees and to sit like a normal human, I did so on my own. He never said a thing.

“Figured so. Am I walking back to the trail-head or are you transporting me?”

“Neither.”

Slowly, he collected my belongings and tagged them as I watched. Within half-an-hour I could hear the four-by-four truck as it bounced up the sandy path, stopping jus’ beyond my line-of-sight amid some sage brush.

This time a woman, in the same uniform came into the clearing and after some talk between the two officers, she came over and asked, “Do you need help up.”

Though my hands were still braced behind me, I rocked forward, rolling my knees under me and staggered to my feet. I stood and waited for her to take me by the arm to her vehicle.

“Trespassing, huh?” she asked her fellow officer.

“Yeah, there jus’ something weird about a guy wandering out here doing nothing but writing.”

“Okay,” she responded, You’ve got all the evidence loaded up, right?”

“Yup.”

“See you in town.”

As she slammed her door shut, I asked, “Does this mean we’re headed to the federal building?”

“Yes. I wanna see what the magistrate has to say about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, most likely like you’re thinking,” she responded, “I think this is a bunch of bullshit.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t gonna belabor the point,” I smiled, “Besides I have a story to write now.”

“So you really are a writer?”

“Yup, I have lots of free time since I lost my paying job, so I fill it with writing, photography and a little painting.”

“You wanna be the new John Muir or something?”

“Or something,” I answered, “I’ll make up my mind once I decide to grow up and quit getting into trouble.”

After a short pause in our conversation, I asked, “If this stuff happened to John Muir when he was alive, do you think he’d have written any of his stories?”

“By stuff, you mean over-regulation and getting arrest for trespassing? Probably not.”

“I was thinking the same – but happily for me, I’m not Mr. Muir.”

She chuckled as I pointed at my truck as we drove by. Later, in the day she would return me to that same truck – without the ‘trespassing’ charges.