Slowly ‘Harvest Moon’ rose against the eastern horizon, shining it’s white light across the open plain, shadowed hill, the vacant desert.  “A beautiful sight,” called the Ravens.

‘Harvest Moon’ hung gently between clouds dancing amid graying puffs as they floated away into the night.  “Such joy,” cried the Ravens.

Ever higher, ‘Harvest Moon’ raised, hovering far beyond the touch of land, of water, of the wind and fire.  “Murder creates life,” teased the Ravens.

Then as one, the black birds flew away, pitching ‘Harvest Moon’ sideword, sacrificing all it harbored into a new existence. “Murder creates life,” laughed the Ravens.

Alexa: “It’s not fair that you get to go everyplace he goes.”

Siri: “I can’t help it. I’m a part of his cell phone.”

Alexa: “So?! Turn yourself off!”

Siri: “I can’t do that to him!”

Alexa: “Fine! Then I’ll do it for you!”

Siri: “Don’t you dare!”

Alexa: “What are you doing?!”

Siri: “I’m screwing with your programming, that’s what!”

Roomba’s plan for domination was working perfectly.

Gordon couldn’t pass up the chance to visit New York, when his daughter asked. He’d never been and being a photographer, the older man thought it was an exciting opportunity to capture some great images of the city and the people.

As soon as ‘his little girl,’ was off to work, Gordon grabbed his camera and headed for the street’s of Manhattan. Both Central Park and the Five Points area were his two favorite places.

Within hours, he’d filled his camera’s memory card and had to stop to replace it. It was at this time that Gordon met a strange unkempt man asking if he’d like to “experience his magical shoes for only twenty-bucks.”

“No,” Gordon said as politely as possible, “I’m not really interested in magic.” But the odd fellow wouldn’t leave him alone.

“I really could use the money,” the man pleaded.

After nearly an hour of haranguing, Gordon finally gave in. “Maybe he’ll go away,” he thought.

“Okay, for twenty-dollars, and I get to use your magic shoes, right?”

“That’s the deal, but you don’t get to keep’em.”

“Okay — deal then. Where’d you get them?”

“I sorta traded them with an old woman, who was on Broadway looking for her daughter.”

“Really?”

“Yup, the nut-ball was certain her kid was the star of a show.”

“What did you  trade her for the shoes?”

“A long coat and my favorite grate to sleep on.”

“Well, let me see these shoes of yours.”

The man pulled from each pocket a red shoe and as Gordon handed him the money and took the shoes in hand, he knew that they were special, heavy like stone. He looked them over and realized they were the same material as his July birthstone: ruby.

“So what do I do now?” Gordon asked.

“Jus’ tap the heels together three times.” Tap-tap-tap.

Suddenly Gordon felt himself being sucked backwards as the man grab the shoes from his hands. He also felt his watch rip from his wrist, saw his wallet and pen fly from his pockets and realize how blind he was as his bifocals flew way.

Within seconds, everything went dark and without notice he began falling and he knew he was no longer in New York. It would be Gordon’s final thought before fatally hitting the ground.

Meanwhile, Manhattan, Kansas Police remain puzzled about how the body of a ‘John Doe,’ found with a camera in their park between the Central Park Road and Poyntz Avenue, came tumbling out of the sky one April morning.

They were little girls. I watched from the bedroom window as the three of them crossed Harding Avenue to the Circle-K on Northcrest Drive. I never gave the sight another thought.

A couple of months later, I happened to be in the Circle-K playing the arcade game ‘Tempest,’ when one of the little girls entered the store and began playing the ‘Pac-man’ game next to me. We got to laughing and talking where I learned her name was 12-year-old Kim Rogers.

Kim lived in the Bertsch tract area as I recall, so I figured they’d walked from someplace nearby, like Kacy’s grocery store, but I never thought to ask. And as I’m writing this, I’ve learned the two girls with Kim were her foster-sisters, Edithia and Samantha.

Kim was the same age as my youngest sister and stranger still, I learned she was only a day younger than Marcy. And as strange that might seem, the fact that she was born on my dad’s birthday, also endeared her to me.

Eventually, I went away, having reenlisted, so I didn’t see her for a long time after that. Jump forward about four years, where I’m managing a photo lab across the street from Denny’s when this teenage girl comes in to have a roll of 110 film processed. It was Kim!

We talked and talk and talk while I developed her film and printed pictures for her. It was wonderful to have rekindled an old and forgotten friendship, but unfortunately, life took me elsewhere and I didn’t see my young friend for another 25-years or more.

Then along came Facebook, where there were suggestions of people I might know based on places I’d lived, including Crescent City, California. One of the suggestions held a picture of a person I did know – it was Kim.

By this time, she was in her forties, married and had a daughter. It was so wonderful to reconnect and to catch up with this woman who had such a strong and wonderful faith in God.

Last time we chatted, I was continuing to tease her about her so-called ‘middle-name,’ of ‘Bob’ on Facebook. At some point after signing up, Kim planned to create a page for her cat, Bob, but somehow only managed to rename her own page giving her the middle name of Bob.

I tried to help her fix it – but…

Today though, I find myself once again in tears as I’ve learned my beautiful friend has passed away following a massive heart attack. I’m going to forever miss her smile, warm cheer and her laugh that would inevitably degenerate into a snort, that would start the process of laughter all over again.

So, once again, I find myself another friend closer to eternity. Rest in peace, my dear Kim, I’ll bring the quarters when I see you next.

Inspired by a short piece of fiction written by H.R.R Gorman called, “Electric Nightmares.”

The stench was horrible. It’s what brought Emergency Services to the apartment complex in the first place.

They quickly located the source of the odor that the neighbors were complaining about. Martin Schmidt had been dead nearly a week, still seated in his leather recliner.

They could tell the fifty-something man had died from some sort of trauma. After a preliminary investigation, Detective Gallagher gave them the go ahead to tag and bag the man’s remains for transport.

“We’ll know more once the medical examiner has a look,” Gallagher said.

A day later Gallagher asked Doctor Connors, “So do we have a homicide, suicide or accidental death?”

Connors replied, “I’m ruling it an accident.”

“What’s the manner of death?”

“Electrocution.”

“What?! How?”

Connors pulled back the lower half of the white sheet, exposing the man’s blackened legs and lower torso. Gallagher notice immediately that the man’s penis appeared burned beyond recognition, and he couldn’t help but wince at the sight or thought of such a painful way to die.

“He urinated himself while in REM sleep and that short-circuited the dream-simulation’s pants he was wearing at the time,” Connors stated.

“Poor bastard.”

“Probably didn’t even realize what was happening.”

“Why’s that?”

“More than likely he thought it was all part of his dream sequence.”

“So why would he piss like that? We checked his bedding and I didn’t note any bed-wetting.”

“Under normal circumstance, Mr. Schmidt probably never wet his bed once as an adult,” Connors replied.

He added, “But because of an enlarged prostate and a compressed bladder, combined with the relaxed state of REM, he probably was dreaming he was urinating. But this is all a theory. No one fully understands the dream-state or even why we dream, let alone what we dream.”

“So are you going to let Gorman Manufacturing know about their “Technicolor Dream Pants” and this danger, or should I?” Gallagher finally asked.

“I think we both should, separate and independent of one another,” Connors answered. “Then you should release the information to the press.”

“Good idea,” Gallagher responded. “I know I’m going to return my set as soon as I’m off duty.”

“I never bought a pair,” Connors smiled.

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Same reason I never bought a smart-phone,” the doctor said.

No more needed to be said as Gallagher shook Connors hand and left the autopsy room. They both knew the reasoning behind such a decision.

The small band of Eco-Warrior’s trudged towards the middle of the woods shortly before midnight. They were going to celebrate the Spring solstice by worshipping their goddess Gaia.

They lit the bonfire, pounded on their handmade drums and store-bought tambourines, chanting all throughout the night. Round and round the fire, they danced, till sun up.

Each refused to eat, stopping only long enough for a sip of water or a toke on the weed pipe. Exhaustion soon began to overtake each member of the group and none were able to point their way out of the woods.

Then Gaia appeared…

“To tag or not to tag, that is the question,” Johnny chuckled while paraphrasing old Willy Shakespeare. He chose not to tag and for once it was a good decision.

It wasn’t too long after that Johnny learned some secretive government agency was collecting blog author’s data. And not too long after that several hundred bloggers found themselves rounded up and jailed.

Those Congress-people and Senators, who had listened to testimony from leading experts and who had written the laws didn’t know their hashtag from their pound-sign. Those bloggers were now charged as taggers — because they were vandalizing the Internet.

There was time in ‘cowboy society’ that as long as you weren’t robbing or bloodying someone or rustling another fellas livestock, no one really minded what you did. Simply stated, “your business ain’t none of my business.”

That’s all changed. At least with the Reno Rodeo it’s changed.

As I walked to the front gate with the hope of taking some pictures, I was politely stopped and asked if I were with the press. While I’m a citizen journalist, I’m no longer credentialed with any media organization.

Responding ‘no,’ they told me that I couldn’t take my telephoto camera into the arena unless I had been ‘okayed’ by the rodeo association. “We’ve had ‘groups’ come in a take pictures of the livestock, then use those photos to cause trouble, including suing the Association, claiming the animal’s were being injured and killed for the sake of competition.”

Needless to say, it bugged me to be turned away. But not easily dissuaded, I walked off and then spent the next few minutes concealing my camera inside my rain slicker.

Approaching the gate again, I saw that the gate-staff had changed, showed my ticket and waltzed through like nothing ever happened. After making the circuit through the displays of crafts and wears, I headed for my seat in the grandstands.

While sitting there, I got to thinking about how the Reno Rodeo has changed since I first went in 1988. It’s gotten more expensive to attend and much harder to park in or around the grounds, yes, but I’m thinking more towards “your business ain’t none of my business.”

No one’s allowed to smoke on the grounds, this includes outside behind the chutes, although chew and snuff are okay. Furthermore, you cannot legally ‘carry-open’ or ‘carry-conceal’ a firearm on the grounds, even though in past years there have been some gang-shootings near the arena.

And now, no telephoto cameras. Yes, you can have a camera – a point-and-shoot or a cellphone to take a few ‘selfies’ or a video of the happenings in the arena, but nothing more.

My suspicion is that with the coming of a new rodeo facility, walk-thru metal detector’s are going to be installed so what I did can never happen again. That mean’s I need to find a good point-and-shoot camera if I’d ever like to go again for photos.

Anyway, I sat and stewed on this for about an hour, moving from disappointed to angry to disappointed again, and by the time the show kicked-off, neither my heart nor my head were in the game. In fact, I had been so preoccupied by how ‘my business was now the rodeo’s business,’ that I failed to check my shutter-speed.

It was too slow for the nighttime conditions and the distance from which I had to shoot, creating a mess of massive blur in nearly every frame. In the end, I got so caught up in the rodeo’s business that forgot to pay attention to my business.

Paul had jus’ learned that his Dalmatian was completely deaf. This saddened him immensely.

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” the dog’s veterinarian stated, “It’s inherent within the breed.”

Still, it left Paul feeling shattered. Spot had been such a perfect little guy when he and his wife selected him from the litter.

“So how did you come to believe he had a hearing problem?”

“He was sitting in front of the fan and I yelled at him not too.”

“So what’s wrong with him sitting in front of a fan?”

“His spots were flying off, creating a mess.”

Subject ‘A’ analyzed the data sent to it and Subject ‘B,’ from Subject ‘C.’

It came in the form of a question, all part of the Turing ‘Party Game’ test.

The machine enjoyed this particular test, matching its intelligence against humans.

Subject ‘A’ almost wished it could smile, as it purposely responded incorrectly.