Cackling, it was like the fire laughed at him. It spit sparks, the embers of fireworks, showering the enclave, bursting through the screen. Beneath the grate, coals shone a neon furry. The fire was hot. It blazed a furnace heat, and yet he lay so near, soaking in the waves like sand. His thick red coat glowed under the orange flickers. I waited for him to smolder in ash, but stubbornly he refused, and turned his heavy head to rest upon the hearth. And there he watched with keen interest, eyebrows dancing with each pull of the cork; champagne frothing with [View Full Entry]

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Harry never understood himself. Doubly confused, his intangible actions led to questions, too many concerns. But he was different, and that was okay by us. Small, stout, stubborn in the haunches, he was hairy (ironic?) with a stubbed tail from the result of a virus. On all fours, Harry trotted, or more skipped, wherever he went. He licked his chops like a spoon of Jif and never gave kisses. Guests were surprised, and disappointed, this kiss-less greeting, but we were grateful especially when we’d gawk out our kitchen window, watching cute little ‘ol Harry do his business, [View Full Entry]

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She was hen. Her name Hen. Tan, brown skin, sleek and slender, but a weight of bulk with delicate touches of nimbleness. She was my Hen; a ’78 Volkswagen bus. There were numerous trips; surfing, the concerts, the local drives. And there were the days of reckless youth; a smokehouse in fog. She treated me like the King, and I cared for her like my Queen. Inseparable, an image in my mind, in so many minds, we were a part of one another, yoked together with a bondage of Love, and now only ripe memories. They cut like knives. It was [View Full Entry]

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“Now,” her voice was shrill like a mouse. The two guests glanced at one another. “My little shrew, yes, I call her my shrew; she’s a wily one. Most importantly, she has something called Anxiety Separation Disorder, or ASD.” Alarm bells sounded for the two baby-sitters: Most Importantly! Mia and Jane stared at each other. Each sought reassurance, yet found only a pair of eyes filled with pity. Their inner conscience started: Okay, let’s go! Yeah, I’ll race you! “So,” the mother continued, “She usually throws a fit and c [View Full Entry]

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I see orange, wax skipping white sheets, but smearing autumn over an open season. I see orange, and it is calm, but robust, rambunctious with a knife. Orange, the color, the crayon, my little pink fingers drawing pompous lines, connecting the mind’s eye. And then eyes, the orange lids like peelings from the skin. They are triangles, upside down like the madman’s costume, its fangs, the mouth wide, swallowing a melon of flame. I see orange as I press hard. Chunks of wax fall off in my excitement. My friends giggle around me. Grabbing for black, I tear down the paper [View Full Entry]

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It’s hot. The sun is at its zenith. It’s noon. A grandmother just drove by making an obscene gesture. Here we are, walking as a group of fourteen, northward along the Old Jackson Highway near Toledo, WA. We just received one of the many “one-fingered peace signs”. Granny was certainly lazy and forgot to bring up the other, so three of us responded, giving her the full symbol we walk for. A peace walk. We walk for peace some three hundred miles. We walk to educate ourselves about the nuclear issues across Washington State and beyond. We march to bring [View Full Entry]

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“You want?” The clerk held up plastic. It was a bag, like any other, commonly seen blowing down a street or swept to the side, submerged in the gutters. “No thanks. I have my own here. Reusable.” I lifted the backpack to the checkout counter. “¡Pura Vida!” he said. ¡Pura Vida! Costa Rica’s signature of an eco-friendly consciousness. Heard everywhere, ¡Pura Vida! expresses the pure life, a worry-free contentment, a cure within society. Within the two mountainous settlements of Santa Elena and Monteverde, ¡Pur [View Full Entry]

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