Finished

May 19, 2025

I mowed my last lawn

I painted my last house

I poured my last concrete

I punched my last time card

I now have penchant for sun sets,

Ocean breezes,

A slower pace,

And longer memories

I walk hand in hand

With my wife of decades

Wondering why

We never made this happen previously

The nocturnals here are omnipresent

Not too loud, so as to repel

More subtle, more alluring

Patiently eroding my will to resist

I am becoming a creature of the night

Balancing my thousands of hours

Of early morning jump-starts

On the traffic caused by millions such as I was

The salt spray powers my enthusiasm

I locate expats with similar desires

No introductions too foreign

No welcomes too diminutive

I walk where I should have walked before

I surrender to the life I should have begun before

I am happier today than ever before

As for all things before, I am finished

My Last Cup of Coffee

May 18, 2025

Hot, black, and free. That is how I ordered it. That’s how I drank it. I dispensed with the food. It wouldn’t make a difference, not this late in the game.

Yesterday, I had a choice. The Sheriff asked that I take the rope. It was cheaper for him. After all of the trouble I caused him, I am inclined to agree with his logic.

I raised the cup to my mouth. Whoever brewed this, brewed it from fresh grounds, not that second or third pass I so frequently encountered in the mining camps.

I miss those mining camps.

I must have been rambling. The Sheriff told me how ironic it was that I missed the only place I found freedom and then went off to kill Jacob Rutherson, losing my freedom.

Another sip.

I see the small wisp of vapor emanating from the surface. It carries the distinctive odor of the surface below. Ironic (what an interesting word to learn this late in my life) that the judge said the same thing about the smoke from the barrel of my Colt after I killed Rutherson.

In retrospect, even he was correct. I didn’t have to shoot. I might have kept my thoughts to myself and permitted his slander to pass quietly.

But, tigers do not change their stripes.

“Hurry up with the coffee. We have a full house to see you swing. You don’t want to disappoint the crowd.” The Sheriff was nice, but always on a schedule rivaling a train conductor’s.

For the first time in my miserable life, I gulped down the fiery contents. It burned, but tasted so good.

Considering what the noose would do to my neck, I wasn’t worried about requiring medical attention.

Коли бажаєш зірки

May 17, 2025

Once

Just once

I wish what I wish

Would come true

What I ask

Is what all would ask

To live

In a world not as blue

A sunrise

Displaying the warmth

A mild wind

Originating not from the north

Butterflies,

Hummingbirds, and crickets

Sounds of life

Not sounds of strife

A walk to a school

That actually existed

Not in a ruin

In which someone resisted

One night

Where silence is adorned

Not every night

From explosions forlorned

Коли я бажаю зірки

Коли сподіваюся на допомогу здалеку

Лише одного бажає моє серце

Це припинити всі війни

Understanding Inflation

May 15, 2025

Phineas walked into the local mercantile wanting to purchase a dozen eggs. The proprietor informed Phineas he wanted 1 gram of gold in exchange. Phineas informed the proprietor that he did not, currently, have any gold on his person for the exchange.

“Well, what do you have?”

With that, Phineas took out an average sized glass vial containing nearly 12 grams of what he referred to as “sand”. Intrigued, the proprietor examined the vial carefully, asking to open it, so as to weigh the contents. Phineas agreed to his terms.

“Where did you get this “sand”?

“I acquired a small lot during my navy days in India.”

“India you say? Is it worth anything?”

“It was my pay. One vial for one week at sea. It had better be worth something.”

Upon hearing this, the mercantile owner made the exchange and began coveting his rare treasure.

The next week, Phineas returned to purchase another dozen eggs. He chose carefully and took the carton to the counter to pay. However, the proprietor told him that he encountered another former navy man with a similar vial of “sand”. Thus, “sand” is not as valuable as you say. Thus the price of the eggs is now two vials of “sand” per dozen. Dejected and somewhat hungry, Phineas gave him two vials of “sand” and departed.

In four days, camped ten miles outside of the town, Phineas and his vial seller met on a river bend. They both exchanged stories about their purchases and the proprietor’s reaction to the increased supply of “sand”. Phineas asked his vial seller to travel to another town to conduct business. The vial seller just kept digging and drying “sand”. He was going back to town to purchase everything he could. In response, Phineas dug even harder, acquiring even more “sand” than his (now) competitor. Both opted to forgo vials, instead using bags and sacks to carry their bounty. When full, both the vial seller and Phineas took their huge amounts of “sand” to town.

At the mercantile, they noticed the proprietor continually raising his prices in response to Phineas and the vial seller continually increasing their mass of “sand” they were willing to forgo for payment.

By sundown, that last dozen eggs cost Phineas nearly three tons of “sand”; a far cry from what he spent on his first dozen eggs.

The vial seller decided to locate another river bend where he could collect the five tons of “sand” he would need to pay for a loaf of bread in the morning. Phineas decided he would look for one gram of that “gold” the proprietor wanted in the first place.

The Death of Mary McGwire

Mary 14, 2025

“High tide comes in two more hours. After that, the crabs come out on the beach. If she isn’t found by then, she most likely won’t be found at all.”

The Lieutenant had a way with words to make the obvious crystal clear. We had twenty one officers combing the rocky beach in search of any sign of Miss McGwire. The Captain wanted her found ASAP. The Chief, her father, wanted Mary found even sooner.

Considering the beach already smelled like dead fish, I didn’t have much in the way of hope.

“Sir”, I spoke to the Lieutenant, “All anyone has discovered is a few coins and an odd pair of mirrored glasses. Witnesses spoke of Miss McGwire wearing a bikini last night. The glasses are round and sized for a man’s head. No fingerprints on either.”

The search continued until the morning.

All pertinent evidence found its way into a cold case cardboard box. Chief McGwire never saw a single officer in his command solve the mystery. He died as his daughter did that day. It just took him another 22 years for him to catch up.

As I finished my career, I was assigned to this “missing person case”. I left color copies of those glasses hanging on each wall of my apartment, haunting me for decades. I spent my time, better spent dating, raising a family, or attending to my life, staring at them, speculating on a myriad of clues I might have missed that day. Clues that could have turned to leads. Leads that could have given Mary’s life a final purpose.

It wasn’t until my niece came over to spend the night, that I finally understood.

“The glasses are mirrored. Did anyone check out what they are reflecting? Maybe someone left them on the beach to show where you were supposed to look.”

Shallow graves below overgrown bushes and vines hide a great deal of evidence during the warm months. When winter arrives, apathy and indifference provide adequate excuses for occupational laziness. When I finally discovered what I believed were her remains, I called it in for DNA analysis and whatever the techs do behind closed doors.

It was Mary, or what was left of her. Her femur had been cut with a chainsaw. Her skull had been crushed with a large rock. Whoever accomplished this was most likely male and even more likely very large. A new review of old files indicated her last boyfriend was of that size.

He was easy to locate for his headstone revealed all I needed to know. His wife ended his life before he ended hers. Neither of them ever had children. Cancer got her late last year. Whether she knew of his past or wanted to know was of no consequence this late in the game.

Quiet donations from current and former officers paid for the proper interment of Mary McGwire’s remains nearly 23 years too late.

All because of a pair of glasses revealing nothing to anyone wanting to see and everything about the one who couldn’t be seen.

NPC Local Union #001

May 13, 2025

“Five hit points! Five hit points and they expect me to attack that ogre! The Hell with this party. The Hell with their quest. I am a NPC and I am proud of it. I deserve to be paid equally. I deserve to be treated equally.”

“Who is with me?”

The crowd cheered in response. Its numbers grew every day as more and more PCs found their numbers insufficient for the adventures they chose. Previously, what took three fighters, two clerics, and a mage/thief, now took three fighters and three non-playing characters (aka, NPC) to fill the ranks. Easily rolled up, easily killed off, more easily forgotten, they had enough of their fodder status.

"Today, the NPCs are going to unionize."

“Not a guild, but a union. We, the NPCs, of this land reserve the right to say NO to danger. We reserve the right to fate us to certain death. We will no longer go hungry. We will no longer be poor. We, the NPCs, will sit and watch you entitled PCs of this land pay for your failures. We are sentient! We are experienced! And it is about time you understand this.”

“Today, my union members, you are people, not just characters. Today, you will take names. Names of honor. Names of dignity. Names that will be remembered. Today, I will be known as William of Knotmoor. Come with me and fulfill your destiny!”

It Always Ends the Same

May 12, 2025

I heard the policeman order me to stop. Like I care.

The chase was the best part. This one was fit and could keep up. He kept his pistol holstered, preventing the wild accusations of me shooting random people.

I don’t have to carry a firearm. He will soon discover why.

I am limber and agile. He is smart and fast. A few tossed trash cans and eventually he will miss a step or two.

So many before have. This one, so far, hasn’t.

He calls again for me to halt. Technically, I have not broken a law. He knows this. All of his kind knows this. But, they think they are in control and when challenged, they will ignore the laws they are sworn to enforce. This makes them dangerous when encountered in groups.

So far, his backup has not arrived to help him violate me.

I turn down the alley to discover it is a dead end. I like that phrase, “dead end”. So permanent. So final. As his first shot catches me in the leg, it is apropos that the chase concludes here. I stumble from the bullet, but manage to arise before he makes his final offer.

“Get down on your face. Hands behind your back or I will shoot again.”

The fire from within burns with a ferocity I covet. I know what is coming. It always ends the same way. My eyes become aglow from the crimson that consumes me.

It only takes my stare for him to unload his magazine of ammunition in fear. He sees the inferno in real time. I see him in slow motion. I had respect for this one. He was patient. He was a thinker. But, in the end, he is as who came before him.

My hellfire grows exponentially, consuming him and all other flammables in the alley. The sudden rush of heat boils every drop of water in his body, expanding each 1000 fold its original volume. His meat within, for a mere microsecond, emits a tantalizing aroma that would attract beasts of gargantuan hunger, ready to consume the source. As it is, the microsecond passes quickly resulting in a malodorous expulsion sickening all who should encounter his former essence.

When the additional police do arrive, they discover a young man of business and education who witnessed the fireball. Two gruesome shadows of soot remain where once stood a rookie police officer and the young woman he chased.

Within the confines of the alley, where the officers take statements, the charred human remains putrefy under the fetid conditions.

I explained that I cannot believe I survived the explosion. The Sergeant chalked it up to me being across the street, outside of the blast radius. He has no more questions for me and I am off to my business I have never been to before, working on accounts I have never seen, ready to take on the world I am all too familiar with.

For I am a Phoenix and it always ends the same.

Just reborn with a new body. Just renewed with opportunities aplenty.

Hiraeth

May 11, 2025

I cannot return from whence I came

The landscape that is lies fallow no more

From its former majesty springs

Concrete foundations

And asphalt drives

Pre-planned for buyers

With more dollars than sense

I yearn for the days of yesteryear

Where blue skies were blue

Running water took the monikers

Of crystal and clear

And silence, serene silence

Was the mean

And not an outlier

It was the last of the

Last of idyllic manors

A simpler time for simpler folk

Forsaking quantity over quality

I have my memories of its grandeur

I also have my memories of letting it go

A price I will eternally pay

The First of all my Future Days to Come

May 10, 2025

For Sandra

I took the severance package

I told my boss I would not return

Not just to this job

I would not return to his cold arms

He said I would be sorry

I replied I was yesterday

But not today

I placed my house on the market

Too close to my former employment

Not worth the taxes

Not worth the expense

Not worth the overtime I had to earn

Not worth the leers I endured

Or the shame

Today, I saw a map of Montana

So why not live there?

Someone must live there

It is called “Big Sky Country”

With fewer buildings

With fewer cars

And fewer jerks

Tomorrow, I will give my house keys

To the real estate agent

Tomorrow I will pack my bags

Making Horace Greely happy

Albeit 172 years too late

Today is the last of my yesterdays

Tomorrow is the first of all my future todays to come

In Conclusion

May 08, 2025

I awoke somewhat light headed. Sunlight shone through the open window. I took an inventory of myself to discover my clothes, those unwashed, muddy jeans and shirt from my attack were replaced with a cotton nightshirt. My skin and hair were clean. The bruises from ago had somehow healed.

I sat up in bed and looked at the mirror. The bullet hole in my head had also healed.

I died last night. I was attacked, possibly raped, and shot in the head, maybe not in that order. But, somehow, I am clean, fully functional, and alive.

This cannot be true. Once you die, you die.

I lay paralyzed in bed, unable to comprehend the last events of my life.

Then, I smelled coffee.

And bacon.

Someone is cooking in my house. Or is it their house? Am I a guest or a patient?

Once again, I arise. I have to go discover answers. After last night, I have nothing to lose.

The old lady finished pouring two cups at a table set for one. She waved her hand for me to take the seat with the bacon, croissant, and sliced strawberries. She didn’t wait for me to ask questions before she began sipping from her cup.

When in Rome,

I took a sip of the coffee, good coffee. I passed on the butter and took a small bite from the croissant. I even partook of a strawberry slice before she began to speak.

“What do you remember?”

Even though I did not know her name, I told her what she wanted to know.

“What do you know of this place?”

“Nothing.” It was all I could offer before another sip.

“You are Katheryn Hollister. You were a nursing student until your conclusion.”

“What do you mean, were a nursing student?”

“Please permit me to finish. You were a nursing student until your conclusion at the age of 28. I was also 28 when I concluded, much in the same way as you.”

I tried to interrupt, but to no avail. It is as if this woman had to tell me what she was saying. I acquiesced by finishing my coffee, listening intently.

“This place has no formal name. Many of the people here refer to it by a variety of nomenclatures. I like to call it home. I have been here so long, it might as well be such.”

“How many people live here?”

With a final sip of her coffee, the old lady rose and began clearing the dishes. I waited for her to answer my question.

“No one actually lives here. We prefer the term, “reside”. With each passing moment, you will grow older even though you will not feel any detrimental effect in the process. Now that you have arrived, ostensibly to take my place, I am free to depart. In the meantime, you will encounter as many residents that wish to encounter you.”

With that, she began to fade, almost an evanescence. I asked her name. I missed her first, but heard her last, “Genovese”, loud and clear.

Returning to the bedroom, I discovered one set of clothes that fit me well. Fully functional, comfortable, and modest were (maybe still are) the adjectives I gravitate toward. I alighted from this house’s porch, on my way to find answers to my many, many questions.

While there are no days or nights “here”, I must have been “here” for an unusually long time. I noticed upon my return, I had quite a few gray hairs and my first wrinkles near my eyes. I did not feel tired or hungry, but I went through the motions to sleep and eat anyway.

By the time I did encounter another resident, they were as bewildered as myself. He had no answers to give other than he enjoyed going through puberty and growing to manhood during his residence. He did not enjoy his conclusion.

When asked, he replied his name was, “Alan Kurdi.” When pushed, he said his conclusion came from drowning. Empathically, I said, “gunshot wound.” Neither of us wanted to continue the conversation. As he departed, I noticed wrinkles on my hands indicative of what I would have looked like had I lived long enough to find out. Moments later, my skin looked almost transparent. If what was happening was as if it happened before, my time was running out. All I could do was kneel beside a small pond to watch my reflection begin to slowly fade. My residency was at an end. I might have been angry at my lot in life, yet all I could do was smile. What I had was more than others. Here, I was given (By whom? Who knows?) a small respite in which to think, gather my thoughts, and face my destiny as a complete person.

I am in conclusion.