River Rocks

 

        It wasn’t anyone’s fault, although the mosquitoes didn’t help.  It’s simply the nature of river rocks to be slippery; it’s all they know how to be.  I was the first one across, then Sally and Sarah, followed by Nate and Wally.  Wally and his new boots.  By the time Wednesday had rolled around we were all tired of hearing about Wally’s new boots and as he started across the river he chimed in again on how absolutely perfect they were.  I’m sure the rest were thinking the same thing I was, for that much money they better be perfect.  Sally and I were already up on shore when Nate leaned forward to help Sarah manage the last little jump onto solid ground.  Everyone seemed to ignore Wally’s muttering but when he slipped the second time and his legs went out from under him we were all too far away to try to reach out.

 

          It was just that quick.  I’ve heard people say that when accidents happen they see things in slow motion.  I can’t say what Wally was going through but for the rest of us it was the blink of an eye.  A little yell - a splash and down stream he went.  That evening, around the campfire we finally began to talk about it.  Everyone just assumed he had hit his head when he fell.  There was no splashing around, no arm waving and no crying out, just this body rushing down river, bouncing about in the rapids, disappearing for a while and then bobbing up further away.

 

          We couldn’t even report the incident as nobody had any cell reception.  It would just have to wait.  The complexion of the group was sullen.  During the daylight hours Nate and I took turns carrying Wally’s things along with our own.  Sarah thought we should have put up a grave marker at the edge of the river where he had fallen in.  At the time no one commented on her suggestion and we all just let it drop, but now – thinking back on it, investigators are going to want to know exactly where it happened, when and how.  It was already two days in the past and nobody wanted to go back, physically or mentally. 

 

 

          It was late into November when I saw the final report of the investigator.   After reading it a second time through I called Nate and asked if he had seen a copy. 

 

          “I know.  Can you believe that?” and then he began laughing. 

 

          I’m sure it was somehow inappropriate but I too joined in laughing.  This is unbelievable.

 

          “At first I wasn’t going to show the girls but this is too good.”

 

          I know, right?  Hitting his head on the rocks wasn’t the cause of death.  Turns out Wally’s boots were so airtight that it was like having a balloon tied to each foot.  They were holding his feet up out of the water and consequently his head under.

 

 

 

 

 

It's Not Done Yet

Humans were not given keen senses.  There are many animals who possess a sharp awareness of their surroundings, but humans do not operate at that level.  It is with that in mind that I tell you the following true story.       

It was a hot evening in Florida.  The humidity was high, and tempers were short.  Several senior ladies were sitting out on lawn chairs, mostly complaining about how hard life was at their age.  While everyone was talking, and for most of the past hour, Mary never joined in the conversation, but just kept knitting.  Her clicking knitting needles had started to get on everyone’s nerves.

Louis came outside carrying a tray with a pitcher of fresh lemonade and several glasses filled with ice.  The ladies’ chatter only stopped long enough for each to take a glass and thank Louis.  Mary just kept knitting.

Finally, Beth said, “I don’t recognize that shape, Mary.  What is it you are knitting?”

All Mary said, however, was, “Its almost done.”

Everyone just let it drop and went on with their talking, until Cloris couldn’t stand it anymore and jumped in with, “That is really an unusual shape, Mary.”  Hoping Mary would then reveal what she was knitting, but that didn’t happen.  She just kept knitting and said, “Its almost finished.”

What little breeze there was didn’t amount to anything in the way of cooling things off.  The sky was clear, and the moon fell brightly on the group of ladies.  The rest of the community was quiet.

Without so much as a BOO, a very large alligator came lumbering from between the houses, heading towards the group of lawn chairs.  The only sound was coming from its breathing, but somehow it was just enough that it got Mary’s attention.

“Now it’s done,” Mary announced to the group, and took the edges of her knitting and with one swift movement, stood, bent forward, and pulled the long, cylindrical masterpiece over the snout of the gator.

“It’s a muzzle.” She smiled and sat back down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scuff Marks & Tattoos

 

    I have a low tolerance for gibberish. That’s why I rarely watch the news and never waste time on presidential debates. These forums, dressed as public discourse, feel more like arenas for noise—an endless churn of polished soundbites, evasions, and performance. Amid all this manufactured uproar, I find myself craving something softer, slower—something real.

    I once found it, briefly, in the Christopher Robin movie. That film held a kind of kindness that seemed to breathe, a gentleness I wish existed more freely at street level. There, kindness wasn’t dramatic or performative—it just was. It existed in glances, in pauses, in the way one character waited for another to finish speaking. It reminded me of a truth I feel we’ve somehow misplaced: that decency, like wildflowers, grows best in quiet, uncultivated places.

    But these days, truth seems to have grown wings. It flutters just out of reach, darting between slogans and soundbites, morphing shape depending on who’s holding the mic. Even binoculars—tools once meant for focus—often miss it entirely. The closer we try to look, the more distorted it becomes.

    So instead of chasing headlines, I follow in the footsteps of those who came before me. I study the scuff marks left behind by their choices—sometimes straight, sometimes wayward. These marks become their own kind of language. And just like tattoos, they tell stories whether we want them to or not. People judge us from a distance by these impressions. They see the wear and assume the whole tale. But the truth is more layered.

    I cannot change my stars. I know this. Destiny, circumstance, temperament—some things are fixed. But I’ve learned to look past them. I’ve developed an ability to see what lies beyond the patterns written in the sky. I live in that distance. In the shimmer of heat rising off a lonely road, where outlines blur and form wavers. The distortion may obscure my image, but it does not diminish my desire to understand, to observe, to know.

    Where some see only scuff marks, I see the evidence of lives fully lived. I see well-traveled paths. I see unpaved roads shaped by persistence, not privilege. I see detours taken out of necessity, not failure. And among them, I see the memories of wildflowers—those moments of beauty that grow in spite of, or perhaps because of, the difficulty of the journey.

    We are more than our outlines. We are more than what others can glean from a glance. Truth, though elusive, still exists in unexpected places—beneath silence, inside reflection, or hidden in the quiet kindness of a story that doesn’t shout to be heard.

    

    Zobostic Corwin

"Hello Ladies"

 She was taking way too long to decide what to do. The guy across the table started making chicken noises. “Bawk, bawk, bawk…”

She didn’t even look up. Just slowly riffled her chips, calm as still water.

“You done?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirked. “Fold already, sweetheart. Or lay down your little pair of twos.”

She smiled sweetly, then pushed all her chips into the pot.

“All in.”

The smirk faltered.

She flipped her cards.
Pocket queens.

The clucking stopped.

The Blog Yard

 

Along an old dirt road sits a junkyard, but this one is nothing but piles of discarded thoughts, unfinished stories and lame poems.

There are a few ideas here and there, although not very good ones.  It’s free to wander around and look.  The owner doesn’t care how much time you spend, he enjoys watching the counter at the front gate.  It keeps track of how many people visit the place, not that it makes any difference.

Once in a great while you can find a completed story.  It’s rare but it does happen.  Don’t get me wrong, they are mostly just beginnings.  I don’t care for those much, I always want to know what happens next.  I never understood how someone can write a great beginning and then just leave it.  That would drive me bonkers

In either case, it’s fun to wander around and look under pages, lift up old broken thoughts and try to imagine where they were headed.  Every now and then wondering, did this really happen? 

I remember the last time I came home from there I had a little haiku stuck to my shoe.

 

Here - in a Galaxy really, really near...

 

It wasn’t any literary masterpiece, it was just some paperback I picked up at a garage sale for twenty-five cents.  Anyway, it was apparently funny, because as I was reading it, I was laughing.  This caught the attention of a passing wild turkey in my yard.  The turkey stopped and looked at me.  Then it walked up closer and just stood there staring.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I started reading out loud, thinking this bird might enjoy it as well.  I obviously was wrong, for halfway into the next page she turned and walked away.  Either she’d already read it, or just doesn’t like science fiction.

 

17-D

     From my seat, I could clearly see 14-A pulling something from his bag in the overhead. He kept nervously looking around and seemed to be sweating quite a lot. When he looked directly at me, I didn’t look away. I wanted him to know he was being watched. He appeared to hesitate for just a second—but then kept going.

    I didn’t want to think the worst of anyone, but I couldn’t help the feeling that this guy was up to no good. It was Christmas time. Maybe he was just trying to wrap a last-minute gift before we landed. Something plastic, maybe—Mr. Potato Head? It looked about that size.

    Then again, so is a hand grenade.

    I shifted in my seat, casually reaching for my ginger ale. Just in case this really was his idea of festive mischief, I wanted to be hydrated for the news cycle. He was unwrapping something now—paper rustling in that slow, deliberate way that feels louder than it should.

    The woman next to him was asleep. Her head bobbed gently against the window. Oblivious. 

    I leaned forward slightly, trying to see more clearly over the seat in front of me.

    That’s when I noticed something I hadn’t before—14-A was wearing two wristwatches.

    Nobody wears two watches unless they’re either traveling internationally… or trying to keep track of something that isn't set to normal time.  Great, now I had two things to get worked up about.  OK, three.  My ginger ale was flat.  

Next chapter arrival - TBD