As I’m searching the newspaper before I use it to light the wood stove, one classified advertisement diverts my attention. Call me. I need to hear from you.

There’s a number. I recognize the area code for eastern California; I’m across the border in Nevada, trying to keep warm in a tin-roofed cabin on some rancher’s north forty.

After I finish my coffee, I pick up the phone and dial.

“Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice.

“Howdy, I’m calling about your ad.”

“Hi. I’m lonely. I needed to hear another voice.”

“Cowboy. Me, too.”

It really wasn’t a very long conversation.

‘Batching it,’ is not as fun as my other married friends claim it to be. I think they say this so it won’t be learned that they’re helplessly, madly in love with their wives and therefore thought uncool, as if they don’t have that same feeling they had the day they proposed.

The TV will remain silent. How I’d love to see a first run of ‘Three’s Company,’ ‘The Carol Burnett Show,’ or even ‘The Glen Campbell Variety Hour,’ but alas they are simply one-off memories. Sure I could watch them and a myriad of other old shows through my computer, but that isn’t viscerally the same as knowing that at midnight will John Wayne remind us of how great the United State’s is, followed by a rendition of the ‘Star Spangled Banner,’ and those ever comforting words: “We now end this broadcast day…”

Today’s microchips and other do-dads don’t need cooling down or adjusting like the old tubes and diodes do. Sadly, this is a reminder that nothing takes much of a rest in these endless 24-hour cycles we’ve labeled ‘night and day.’

Anyway, to work my way through this period of separation, first I follow my ‘honey-do’ list. Once finished with that, I look for things to do or experience from my past days – mostly child and young adulthood.

The way fortune works in my life though , if I plan, they fall apart and I don’t have to look into the past. It certainly looked like that as I had one of our three dogs hurt themselves, so I figured I’d be babysitting an injured pup all the while my wife was out-of-town visiting family.

But the dog requires very little looking after which allows me the time to daydream of things past, as they were and never will be again – at least not in this lifetime. I always have to warn myself that visiting backwards can lead to a bit of melancholia and in my case, might end in depression.

The scratched 33 and a 1/3 record I’m playing keeps skipping. I need a nickel, maybe two to hold the needle down as it passes over the gouge. Works like a charm. Try that with a damaged CD and you won’t get much of a return for your money.

As I stand by the charcoal grill, I breathe in the aroma of roasting hot dogs as they sizzled over the bricks. This comes with the joyful sound of children playing, their happy voices yelling, squealing and laughter — much like it was in my childhood neighborhood.

“God,” I bemoan, “Was it really that long ago and if so, why do I feel it like it was jus’ yesterday?”

Then after consuming more than my fill of half-burnt red hots, I turn on one of my older AM/FM radios, and since it hasn’t the same stereo-effect newer models have, I hear broadcast after broadcast of song and commercial like it was ‘back in the day.’ I’m even thinking of making a cassette of music from what I’m hearing, but I lack the tape. My handy-dandy pencil sits at the ready, never needing use. No — writing is never going to be it’s workout this evening if I do find an old cassette tape.

Believe me when I say you are not really lost or out-of-step here. None of this has real meaning, nor does it lead anyplace, other than into the recesses of my ‘elder’ brain. In fact it is more of an exercise in sharing a memory, fresh off my emotional press, headliners be damned. And know that this hodge-podge of words is far better and gentler than any actual headline you’ll read this Patriot’s Day.

‘Stella,’ I heard her name before I saw her and to do that I had to move to the front of the bunch. We’d been packed together like the proverbial ‘sardines.’

She was all that I had dreamed of, and when we made contact, we both knew it was our destiny to spend time together. Stella’s warm hand left me excited as she touched me.

As best I could, I beckoned her to take me home with her. With no hesitation, Stella did.

It was an evening of pleasure, of anticipation and of getting to know Stella. She was a complicated being and I wanted to study her, to know how best to please her every need.

The following morning, she grew serious as she peeled back my foreskin and teased me with her lips. The touch of Stella’s tongue left me harder than I ever remembered being before.

Stella gently nibbled at me until I could no longer stand it. She swallowed and swallowed all that I had to give her. It was magic, it was life and it was death as I lay emptied.

Oh, and I would spend a few further hours with my Stella, gleaning more out of the woman than perhaps anybody should. The things this ripe banana never knew, I now share with you, so be warned: Stella will chew you up, then crap you out.

Oh, warmth, where are you?
My skin itches for your scratch.
My joints scream in bony agony.
My fingers fumble, refusing to bend.
My feet are but blocks of ice, though they be rosy pink.
Not even in my clothing or under my blankets, can I find your friendship.
My hearth, though blazing, blows a chilled breeze.
There are no words to say how much I miss your sweet touch.
In fact, I cannot recall another lover I’ve desired so desperately.
Maybe your disappearance is a foretelling of things soon to be.
Perhaps death warms himself for a short visit?

There is a visceral difference in the sound between rain as it drops through a forest canopy and falls unencumbered in a city street. Neither are softer, nor gentler in the landing.

This afternoon, I squat in a back alley off the main drag of this city, covered with a water-logged piece of cardboard, writing this. Yes, I’m a journaling man – have been most of my life.

Tucked against the red bricks, a slight eve shelters me as I put a pencil stub to paper. Any paper will do and I am more than happy to have what yellow pencil in hand to squeeze between my fingers.

My muse is a tease, my slave driver, my lover, coming at all inappropriate and inopportune times. Still I welcome her, my only companion in otherwise difficult times.

However, no one wants soggy words from a vagabond, drifter, tramp, hobo, bum, drunk, homeless person or whatever the nom de jour is this hour. I call myself a writer, chronicling the sights, sounds, feelings of life around me, but then who am I, a nameless, faceless, worthless man.

A trio of rats have popped up out of the sewer; they scurry and scamper towards the street. Few will notices them, as they notice me, refusing to believe they exist in their fair city.

They’re heading north, towards the university. I am going that direction as well, my broken-down piece of cardboard discarded where I struggle with cold fingers to fold away my piece of prose until a better time.

Higher ground – the water is rising – the rats tell me so and all I can do is follow. Goodnight, my beloved muse, goodnight.

The old carnival fortune-telling machine sat quietly in the corner of the antique store collecting dust. Tiny couldn’t help himself as he walked over to it to get a better look.

He was wasting some time before dinner and found the store the perfect place to help him. The old thing reminded him of the one from the movie, ‘Big,’ a childhood favorite of his.

Now Tiny, whose real name was Theodore, was anything but tiny. That was jus’ his nickname from the neighborhood.

He had always been big. In fact, he held a certain amount of pride in the fact that at one time he had been the largest baby ever born in San Diego County.

That prideful fact became shattered one day in middle-school when he asked Betty Jo Johnson to go to the Winter Ball with him. She turned him down flat, calling him fat in the process.

It had never occurred to Tiny that he was fat, so he decided then and there to use his ungainly size to his advantage. He played center all four-years on the varsity football squad, took home trophies and metals in wrestling, and couldn’t be moved once he set himself over home plate in baseball.

And though he never asked another girl out to a dance, he made certain he attended every one. Furthermore, he made certain that all the ‘wallflowers’ hugging the walls had at least one dance throughout the night.

But now, Tiny was approaching 29-years-old and his mind moved from the things that had been to the things he needed to fulfill his life. He had even begun casually dating a young woman from his work place and he hoped the relationship might blossom into something greater.

They were planning to go dancing Tuesday night. It was something he was really looking forwards to doing with Patricia as he had something special in mind.

He fished a nickel from his pant pocket and slipped in the slot. Instantly, the machine banged to life, the puppet head moving back and forth, lights flashing from one side of the glass both to the other, before a voice spoke, “Make a wish, but don’t be frivolous, don’t stammer like a fish, make it marvelous.”

Chuckling at the bad rhyme, Tiny knew in an instant what he would wish for, silly or not, “I wish to weigh-less.”

The wooden frame trembled and vibrated, the puppet’s head turned to-and-fro and the lights flashed in rapid succession before the voice rumble out: Your wish is my command, but be where you stay, because like the sand, you might blow away.”

The machine dinged loudly and small orange card drop from a slot below where Tiny had fed his nickel. On it were the same words, that as Tiny read them, felt that oddly, they were some sort of warning.

He slipped the card in his back pocket, looked at his watch and headed out the door. He stopped at Wendy’s, where he purchased a Triple, with everything, a baked potato – again with everything, two large fries, an extra-large coke and an extra-large Frost, all to go.

Since he didn’t live very far away, Tiny began working on the Frosty, finishing it before he pulled into his parking spot at his apartment complex. Feeling famished, he hurried up the walkway and in his residence.

Three bites of the burger later he felt as if he were too full to take another bite. “Must have been that Frosty that done it,” he said as he put his dinner in the refrigerator anticipating eating it for breakfast.

Being an early riser, Tiny turned in after a few minutes of the national news and slightly before night set in. As usual, he was sound asleep with in minutes of his head hitting his pillow.

“What a wild dream that was,” Tiny smiled as he rolled over to turn off his bedside alarm. That’s when he discovered what he thought to be a dream, was actually a waking nightmare.

He screamed involuntarily as he floated along his ceiling, far above the bed. His mind raced in horrified panic, trying to comprehend what was happening.

It took him a few minutes to calm down and begin to reason out his situation. He saw the orange card on his nightstand and understood instantly that the old machine misunderstood his wish to weigh less as a request to be weightless.

Though the situation remained irrational, he knew he had to find away to get to his cell phone, also on the nightstand. He also knew that there was but one person in the world he could depend on to help him in any situation – Bugg.

It took several attempts, that included putting foot through the drywall, but Tiny managed to force his body to aim in a downward trajectory, where he was able to grab his device, before he quickly shot back up towards the ceiling.

Tiny hit his speed dial and waited for his grade school friend to answer. “Hey, Bugg,” he said trying not to sound to panicked, “I’m in a real situation here at my apartment. No, no, nothing like that. But I do need your help.”

He had no place to put his phone on his person as he’d gone to bed naked. Now he had to figure out how to get some clothes on before Bugg arrived.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that if he were careful and moved with deliberate slowness, he could walk on the ceiling almost as if he were walking on his carpet. This made life a little easier as he was able to reach his dresser and pull on a pair of pajama bottoms.

He learned that he could easily reach the shelf in front of his kitchen sink and that this would be a good place to set his cell phone or anything else he might need while he free floated about his apartment. He thought about the rest of the burger and the cold fries in the fridge and concluded he wasn’t hungry at the moment.

“Later,” he promised himself.

Soon a rapping sound came from his front door. He peeked through the peep-hole, happy to see Bugg’s eye looking back at him through the hole, so he opened the door.

Tiny drifted away from the door as Bugg stood there, mouth agape, speechless. Suddenly the lanky and skinny Bugg shook his head and screeched, “What the…”

“I’ll explain,” Tiny interrupted, “but for now we need to find a way for me to get my feet on the ground.”

“How can I help with that – I don’t know anything about stuff like this,” Bugg complained.

“Neither do I, but I’m learning as I go,” Tiny countered.

It didn’t take very long for the pair to devise a plan, wherein Bugg would pull the lighter-than-air Tiny down to the floor, maneuver his bulk to his recliner, then tying him down. It was only a temporary fix, but it would do for the while.

Minutes later, Bugg offered up the idea of buying a weighed-vest from the local sporting good store. Tiny agreed and asked that he also purchase several ankle weights and a pair of weighted shoes, size eight-and-a-half.

As soon as Bugg left, Tiny, who had Bugg retrieve his phone from the sink shelf tapped the speed dial button for work. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m not doing good this morning so I’m not coming into work today.”

With that out-of-the-way, Tiny had the rest of the day to figure out how to resolve his weightlessness. As he sat, tied to his chair, he grew more and more nervous the longer Bugg was gone.

In less than two-hours, Bugg returned, carrying several heavy boxes. The first thing Tiny wanted to try were the weighted-shoes.

As soon as they were on, he untied the rope holding him to the chair. Much to his surprise, while he floated to an erect position, he didn’t lose contact with the floor and bounce into the ceiling.

That happened as he took his first step in his new shoes. He slammed into the ceiling so hard that he put his head completely through the drywall material.

It was obvious that he would need a bit more weight to maintain his ability to walk across the room. “Let me put a couple of those ankle weights on.”

Tiny’s stability increased and for the first time since waking in this peculiar predicament, he took a step without leaving the floor. He stood there for several seconds unable to decided if he wanted to shout for joy or cry out of happiness.

He spent the rest of the day working on actions that he usually took for granted, using the toilet, bathing and even getting dressed. While the weighted shoes and ankle weights worked to hold him down, they didn’t necessarily make easy getting rudimentary activities completed.

After struggling all day Monday with his weightlessness, he decided to brave it and go to work. Besides, it was Tuesday and he had date with Patricia.

All day long Tiny carried on as if things were normal with him. He did everything he could to maintain his routine and since he felt lighter-than-air he discovered he had gotten more work done than ever before.

Patricia and he sat outside at a nearby picnic table and ate lunch together, talking and laughing. “I haven’t been dancing in a long time,” she told him.

After work, Tiny raced home to begin the process of getting ready for that night’s date. Though somewhat nervous, he managed to get washed and dressed in record time and even had time to relax for an hour before he was to pick up Patricia.

It was a wonderful evening. Tiny had danced better than he’d ever danced in his life, with the evening being made better by the fact he was doing so with the woman he loved.

All to soon the night ended, and at midnight he pulled his car to the side of the curb in front of her home. And like a gentleman he walked her to the door to see her in safely.

However this time he had a surprise as they stood facing one another on her porch steps. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small box, before getting down on one knee.

Patricia immediately began crying. At first Tiny thought they were tears of happiness, but soon he realized they were tears of anguish.

Though he’d not asked her to marry him yet, Patricia said, “You’re a sweet guy and all that, but I’m jus’ not ready to be married to one man for the rest of my life.”

“Oh,” Tiny said, trying to sound brave, “I understand.” He really didn’t understand and his bravery only extended so far.

He kissed her gently on the cheek and stood by as she walked through her front door. With a sigh, he placed the small box on the ‘Welcome’ mat for her to find in the morning.

After all it held an item that he didn’t really have any use for and besides Tiny concluded, “I bought it for her.”

Hands stuffed in his pants pockets, Tiny wandered down the narrow walk way to his car. By then tears had begun slipping down his cheeks and he found himself desiring to be alone in an isolated place.

Tiny drove to the edge of town, to an open field where he could look up at the millions of stars and dream. But this early morning he didn’t want to dream, he wanted to fix his shattered heart.

Unable to sit or to lie down, Tiny stood motionless, staring up at the Milky Way, hot tears rolling down his face. He looked down at the toes of his weighted shoes as they protruded from under his pant cuffs.

He knelt and undid the ankle weights, followed by the shoes, and slipped them off. Quietly and quickly Tiny rose from the ground, disappearing into the vastness of the darkened sky.

The noise came from beneath her bed. Fearing a monster, Alice grabs her teddy bear, willing it to keep her safe.

“Mommy! ” Alice cries, but her mother doesn’t respond. She squeezes the teddy bear tighter.

Then Alice hears footsteps coming to her door. The noises from under the bed suddenly grow quiet as her mother’s drunk boyfriend enters the room.

As he approaches Alice, two large hairy hands with ragged claws, reach out, grabbing him by the ankles. Screaming, the boyfriend’s dragged beneath the bed.

Soon, from under Alice’s bed, a soft voice whispers, “You’re safe from the monster, now.”

“Are you crazy?” Mary Sargent’s daughter pleaded, “Don’t get in the car with him!”

That was February 12, 1987 – the last time anyone would see her again. Within hours she’d be reported missing as the man driving the car, with whom Mary had an abusive relationship, would return to the Reno-Sparks Indian Colony (RSIC) alone.

This same man would reportedly borrow a garden hose from his neighbor and as that neighbor watched, he would rinse out the interior of his car. Information like this led nowhere and eventually the same man would be shot to death by a RSIC police officer after he violently attacked the officer.

Mary Sargent’s story though isn’t a singular one.

In 2016, North Dakota alone had 125 cases of missing women reported to the National Crime Information Center. This statistic and others like it are known to be under-reported and may range into the many thousands.

Of these 125 reported cases, most can be connected to the oil fields. These same U.S. oil fields are generally protected by private security firms, who operate under the watchful eye of the Department of Homeland Security.

Unfortunately, few have been fully investigated with reason’s being ‘lack of funding,’ ‘under-staffing,’ ‘no evidence of foul-play,’ or ‘no body, no crime.’ The majority of women who vanish and whose remains are found, are so highly desiccated and victims of deprivation, that no identifications can be made of the person and they are then buried as ‘Jane Doe’ followed by a serial number.

In Canada, the problem is far worse, with estimates ranging from 1,000 to nearly 4,000 Indigenous women having gone missing or murdered. And again, the numbers are very low due to under-reported cases as Canada does not maintain a database for missing people, which makes it difficult to figure out the rate at which Indigenous women go missing and found murdered, or to even compare information between populations.

Although Indigenous women and girls make up only four-percent of the female population in Canada, they represented 16-percent of all female homicides in Canada between 1980 and 2012. A 2007 study by the province of Saskatchewan – the only one to have systematically reviewed its missing persons files for cases involving Indigenous women – these women were found to make up six-percent of the population, but 60-percent of their missing and murdered women cases.

As for Mary – few to no records exist, as her disappearance was and continues to be considered a ‘very low priority.’ According to Mary’s family, Bureau of Indian Affairs investigators told them two things at the time: ‘she’s an adult and because of her life-style she can disappear if she wants,’ and ‘she’s one less Indian we have to worry about.’

The last time anybody saw Mary, she was wearing a white cotton blouse with ruffles on the shoulders, Levi 501 blue jeans and a pair of light blue and white Reebok tennis shoes. Sadly, that’s pretty much all the information the one official report holds; not her height, weight, age, distinguishing features or even a photograph.

Lastly, where ever she lays, for over three-decades, Mary has had no one to sing her funeral song. It’s time to change this.

It was a conversation I wasn’t supposed to overhear, but the man doing the talking and laughing was loud and not paying very much attention to his surroundings as he spoke to the few camp-followers he had in tow. It happened during the invocation on Sunday, the final day of the Numaga 2018 Pow Wow.

We were seated in the media-only section and had I been working as a reporter, I would quizzed Nevada Gubernatorial candidate Steve Sisolak on some of his platform positions. But I was there as a guest of the Hungry Valley Indian Reservation as an event photographer – meaning the Pow Wow participants were my main focus.

“Yeah, of course he wouldn’t be here,” Sisolak scoffed, “he only hangs out with the rich.”

He laughed, as did his four-person entourage. He was talking about his primary competitor, Adam Laxalt.

This happened during the invocation, where much of the crowd was silent and reverent. Furthermore, someone said this is a long prayer, to which Sisolak stated, “She’s long winded when she’s invited to speak at the legislature, too.”

Unable to hear the because of the ongoing interruption, he had to be ‘shushed’ twice, including once by me. Very little was said after that and the candidate and his group left the event shortly afterwards.

A few minutes later, I was introduced to Wes Duncan, who is running for Attorney General of Nevada. He was talking with a small group of people and we were discussing his opponents recent bad press.

Aaron Ford was arrested four times in Texas in the 1990s for public intoxication, stealing tires and twice for failing to appear in court. He also fell behind or ignored paying over $185-thousand dollar to the IRS between 2010 and 2014.

“I don’t hold what happened in the 90’s against him, but the unpaid taxes…” Duncan derided Ford.

“Personally, what happened in the 90’s goes towards character — which is important,” I interrupted, “but I can forgive the guy about not paying his taxes on time – after all, taxation’s theft since they’re not using that money the way the U.S. Constitution says it should be used.”

“Well,” changing the subject ever so slightly, Duncan replied, “taxes pay for services and salaries.”

Though he didn’t know it, he made my point for me about the unconstitutional misuse of our taxes, so nothing more could be said. Eventually, he and his aide-de-camp left the Pow Wow, for parts unknown.

At first, the sudden appearance of the goddess Bastet frightened the retired Professor of Egyptology. Her lithe body and cat-like head were beyond anything he’d seen in the natural world.

The old man knew Bastet to be a guide and helper to the dead, therefore he was certain that death was upon him. So he quietly set aside his tea and book, closed his eyes and announced, “I’m ready.”

However, nothing happened. After waiting a few seconds more, he opened his eyes and saw that the goddess had become distracted, having curled herself into an open and empty cardboard box.