Bob and Flo by Don Taco

 Bob and Flo

  Bob always hated crossing the street at this particular intersection, because there was always some cop watching, and they were onto him. One step out of the lines of the crosswalk and they were on him like a Super Bowl referee. Do you know how much those dudes get paid for that game? It's obscene. Bob didn't know that, either, nor did he know why the local police seemed to have it in for him, but he was capable of learning from experience, and after a few dozens of having half an hour stolen from his life, showing his I.D. and other papers, and answering pointlessly pointed questions, he tried to avoid the area completely, and walk across the street like he was the absolute soul of law and order. It didn't seem to matter. He was stopped a few times a month at the minimum, more if he got the tiniest bit careless. Bob found this as tiresome as it was inexplicable. And, since he wasn't much of a 'plan ahead' kind of guy, he needed to cross that street to get something for dinner from the Mini-Mart on that corner. It seemed unnecessarily troublesome to have to walk three or four extra blocks just to avoid crossing at the closest intersection. There wasn't a proper grocery store within twenty blocks, and Bob didn't drive. Or even own a car, which always seemed to piss off Johnny Law when he couldn't produce any registration, insurance card, or even what they considered a proper driver's license. They were skeptical of his perfectly legitimate identification card, since they saw them so rarely. To Bob, it didn't seem as if there were just one or two cops who hated him, since he almost never recognized them. It seemed as if it was a different officer every time. But as if they all told each other about him, and passed off their attitude like a relay runner handing off the baton. The cops all had somethig like that baton on their batman-like utility belts, and much of the time they kept a hand on them, as if beating the crap out of a transgressor was the proper punishment for jaywalking. Or they were particularly fearful of middle-aged dough-faced milktoasts for some reason.

  The day Bob's life turned around was the day he saw a woman, about his own age, cut the corner by a few steps, and immediately get accosted by one of the big burly policemen that always seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He continued to cross, very carefully in spite of the logical assumption that the cop was already busy and he might be safe, took up a leisurely stance in a nearby doorway, and tried to pretend he wasn't watching. There wasn't much to see, or learn. He'd seen it all before, many times. When the policeman finally finished his interrogation and the acompanying tirade, and the woman went on about her business, whatever it was, he fell into step next to her, and remarked, "Boy! The cops around here sure can be assholes, can't they?" Without even looking startled, the woman turned to him and exclaimed, "Oh my god! It's like every time I cross that street!" Looking startled, Bob replied, "You too? I thought it was just me." To this the woman replied, "You too?" After a long moment of mutual astonishment, Bob somehow gathered the presence of mind to suggest they get coffee, unless, of course, she was hurrying to somewhere she needed to be. She wasn't. They did. Which gave them the time for a detailed examination and commiseration of their somewhat shared experience with law enforcement, especially at that particular location. 

  Now, neither one of them had ever met a kindred spirit before. That was something out of stories and songs. Peas in a pod, birds of a feather, same kind of crazy as me. They hit it off, big time. It was more than either had ever imagined, much less dared to dream. They were ordinay people and this was the most extraordinary event in either of their lives. Whatever plans each of them had got set aside if not completely forgotten. Long after the coffee, they went to dinner at a little Italian place down the block that neither had ever visited before. They were so wrapped up in each other they can't tell you if it was any good. Somewhere in the middle of that, they found the wit to actually exchange names. Bob said, "Flo! That's a great name. It's a word that means something, like a river." Flo said, "And Bob's the same!" Bob looked puzzled. Flo continued, "Bob. Like you do with your head, or in a river." Bob was astonished. His mother had always called him Robert, and it was only later in his adult years, after she was gone, that he relaxed and adopted the diminutive. He had never considerd that it was a word with a meaning. He was delighted! "Bob and Flo!," he said. "The river couple! Names that mean something." "Right," said Flo, " Like, 'What do you name a woman lounging in a doorway? Eileen." Bob came back with," And what do you name the boy at her feet? Matt." After about an hour of that, Bob and Flo were smitten. She didn't go home with him that night, but only because he wasn't worldly enough to realize that he should ask. They did go to dinner again the next night, though, and it did lead to the bedroom, because Flo managed to drop enough subtle hints that Bob screwed up his courage. They both quickly got over being shy and got down to the much more serious business of being clumsy instead.

  Somewhere along the line, in that first flush of rambling conversations, Flo asked, perhaps just teasingly, perhaps a bit tentatively, maybe both, if she should come back again tomorrow. Bob, without a thought, or a pause, said, "Oh, gosh. I'd like you to believe you're welcome here anytime." From the light that sparked in Flo's eyes, Bob realized that it might have been the smartest thing he had ever said in his life. Flo began transfering her things the next day, and was all moved in by the end of the week. The piano was a bit of an issue, but they talked about selling it and trading up to a high quality electronic keyboard, which would be more convenient, and more versatile, and much smaller. They decided to live in Bob's apartment, because it was a smidge larger and just a tiny bit nicer, and Flo had no lease to worry about. Her landlady, who she'd always found a bit standoffish, thanked her for being a good tenant, gave her a bottle of decent champagne, and assured her the place would rent again in no time. There were, of course, numerous minor inconveniences and adjustments to be made, in both of Bob and Flo's lives, but they were so overwhelmed to be happy, to have a mate, that none of it bothered them.

  After a couple months of this new-found and completely unexpected bliss, Bob got to thinking that perhaps he should inquire about Flo's thoughts about marriage. "Have you ever thought about marriage," he asked, one evening. "Oh, yes!" Flo quickly replied. A tad flustered, Bob went on, "Um, I sort of meant about you and me, I guess." "Oh, yes!" Flo replied, even more quickly and even more chipper. Bob muddled on, "Maybe something romantic, like on Valentine's Day?" Flo looked crestfallen. Bob knew the word, from books, but he had never seen an example of it in real life. It was just as if some supporting member for her face had given way. Flo said, very quietly, "That's so far away." Bob said, "Well, I just thought, plenty of time to plan, I don't have any idea what kind of ceremony, or if you have any plans or wishes..." He tapered off, not at all sure what ground he was standing on or even what he was trying to say. After a moment, he managed, "Did you have any ideas?" Flo perked up. "What about June?" she asked. Bob replied, "That's less than two months. Will there be time to set everything up?" Flo replied cheerfully, "We'll manage!" And they did. Now, you realize, there are millions of engagement stories that are far more romantic than this, but if you'd been in that room that day you'd have seen two of the happiest people on this earth. They were married on a warm sunny June day in a local park by a man who had a minister license but was also a folk musician and a juggler, with a keg of beer, catered by Joe's Chili Emporium, which was right around the corner from their apartment. It was a small event. Almost everyone they knew was there. Including her old landlady, Mrs. Patchert, who she had run into at the grocery store one day, got to talking to, and has been playing pinochle with once a week ever since.

  An unexpected consequence of their meeting, or, at least, they didn't have any idea what else to blame it on, was that they seemed to be able to cross that intersection without attracting any sort of police presence. Bob even talked Flo into the two of them jaywalking across in the middle of the street one time, with no repercussions, but they both agreed that it made them too uncomfortable to turn it into a habit. Of course, with two cooks, and two planners, they didn't go to the Mini-Mart anywhere near as much for a hasty meal, but that didn't really seem to explain the change. It was as if the world was just different now. And for them, it was.

  Flo surprised Bob one day by appearing after work on a hot pink Vespa motor scooter she had decided to purchase from a colleague. "Now," she said, "We can shop at a REAL grocery store any time we want!" They bought matching helmets the color of the sun, and enjoyed waving at the sidewalk-dwellers who gawked at them as they puttered by.

  Close to a year after meeting, when Valentine's Day rolled around, Bob surprised Flo with a handmade Valentine's Day card. It was as crudely and haphazardly pasted together from cut colored construction paper as that of any grade school child, perhaps or perhaps not intentionally. It read...

 Roses are red

 Policemen's uniforms are blue

 I never liked them much, but

 They did lead me to you.

                                                                                          by Don Taco

                                                                                          copyright 2025

My Dog Snores by Mike Freeman

 My Dog Snores

By Mike Freeman

My dog's snoring really upsets me. It is not just because he keeps me awake; it is because he snores louder than I do, which enables him to keep me awake. The unwritten rule is the loudest snorer sleeps peacefully while everyone and everything else ponders the thunderous volume of sound.

My dog’s snoring is like an asthmatic horse with a sinus infection. He is louder than a trumpet stuck up an elephant’s nose. He can resurrect the dead before Jesus comes!

Ricky is 10 years old, which is allegedly 70 years in dog years. I am 71. Our bodies make various rumbly noises while we sleep. So far, I am winning the volume war in this new endeavor, but I am concerned he will rally past me as he ages more quickly.

Lately, he barks, growls, and makes weird doggy whimpering sounds in his sleep. Lord knows what is going on in his doggy dreams. I don't. I can't dream because he does.

He also moves around a lot. He plops down at my feet and then moves over to lie down on my bladder or stomach. Then he is up by my head. Lots of commotion. His continual body beatings keep me awake as I try to anticipate where he is moving next. He has a knack for lying on the TV remote, turning the TV off when I want it on and on when I want it off.

Dogs sleep 12 to 14 hours a day, every day. That means he gets more practice at doing all of the above. The trends are not my friends regarding any of the above matters. Sleepless nights are my future.

It is a wonderful thing that God created Ricky to bring so much love, joy, and fun to me when we are awake. Dogs being man's best friend should be the 11th commandment! 

The Extraordinary Spit Ball by Bruce Emard

 THE EXTRAORDINARY SPIT BALL

by  Bruce Emard

Father Grimes had his back to the class as her wrote a physics formula on the blackboard in white chalk, chalk dust drifting on to a ledge, some on to the floor.  Tiny spit balls were flying silently across the classroom from Bic pens, ink cartridges removed. Joe Brady sat in the desk next to me, his cheek bulging as he chewed.  At first, I couldn’t determine what he was chewing.  Then, as he opened his mouth a few times to adjust the contents to the other cheek, I realized it was a whole sheet of lined white note paper from his binder.    I expected Joe to heave the giant spitball across the classroom at Bill Zimmerman, the middle linebacker on the football team, who was staring intently at the formula.

Father Grimes continued writing the physics formula on the black board.  I watched as he raised his chalk-whitened hand to the top of the chalk board to continue the exceptionally long formula. Suddenly, a white disc-shaped wad about four inches in diameter appeared just below his bent, outstretched arm.  A loud “splat” echoed through the classroom, and it grew deathly quiet.  Father Grimes stood frozen at the blackboard, his back to the class.  He paused in mid formula, then slowly began to turn toward the class.  When he completed his turn, it seemed an icy chill enveloped the classroom.  Father Grimes’s face was bright pink.  His white teeth shone through purple lips in a devilish grin.  In a high-pitched voice affected by a bout with yellow fever as a child, Father Grimes said, “Alright gentlemen, I want to know which one of you threw that wad.  Speak up!  You have ten seconds.  If I don’t get my answer, the whole class will suffer.”

I took a furtive glance at Joe, not wanting to give away his identity.  Joe slowly raised his hand, “I did Father.”  Father Grimes saw his raised hand, then walked down the row of desks to where Joe sat with an impish smile on his face.  “Do you think it’s funny, Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said, the smile still on his face.  Father Grimes’s hand slowly moved toward Joe’s head, then took a quick dive and grabbed Joe by the throat of his collared shirt.  Again slowly, he pulled Joe across the closed-in side of his desk until Joe lay across his desk on the floor.  “Stand up Mr. Brady,” Father Grimes said as he pulled him to his feet.  Wap, Wap!  The sounds of Father Grimes’s slaps across each of Joe’s cheeks stunned the class.  The smile on Joe’s face was gone.  “Do you still think it’s funny Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said seriously.  “Now Mr. Brady, about a week ago when I entered my classroom, I found a stiff, yellow jock strap tacked to my message board.  Are you by any chance the culprit?”  “Yes Father.”  Wap!  “That was an extraordinary spitball, Mr. Brady. Now I want you to remove it from the blackboard and throw it in the trash.”  Joe walked meekly to the front of the class, his cheeks lined with red and white finger marks, peeled the giant spit ball from the blackboard, and carefully dropped it into the trashcan.  “Thank you, Mr. Brady. Now, if you ever act up in my classroom again, I won’t be so nice.  Do you understand, Mr. Brady?”  “Yes Father.”  

The next day in physics class, to my astonishment, Father Grimes wheeled in a cart on top of which sat three gallons of strawberry ice cream and three gallons of vanilla ice cream; announced he was mortified by his reaction yesterday to the extraordinary spitball; then asked us politely to form a line and come to the front of the classroom where he served each of us one scoop of strawberry and one scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Lards and Moles, Moles and Lards by David Molina

 

Lards and Moles, Moles and Lards

David Molina

The Servite High School faculty during our four years as high school students during the late ’60s was an odd collection to say the least. A marmalade salad consisting of Servite friars and lay people, most of whom would not last very long when faced with a Mongol horde of uncivilized eighth graders who never rose much beyond that level. Barbarians who aped the Lord of the Flies during a retreat wherein they beheaded an unfortunate cat.  Ne’er Do Wells who admired and emulated Charles Dickens's villains more than his heroes. Yes, we had our fair share of Fagins, Heeps, Sykes, and many Artful Dodgers.

The faculty list was constantly in a state of flux given these conditions, compounded by the extreme penury guaranteed by working at a private Catholic high school during the 1960s. The friars' vows of poverty were shared by their lay companions, and most moved on, both friars and lay persons, when they found a way out.

Yes, Servite High School was a first-class, Charles Dickens-style workhouse,  but with the tables turned. The Orange County enfants terribles took every opportunity to exploit the hapless, feckless adults.

Mr. Speas, Mrs. Phinney, Sister Agnes, Charles Smith, Mildred Roche, Brother Jiles, and Father Grimes, all were easy targets. There were a handful of teachers who managed their hordes with some success. The typical countermeasures featured a.) kinetics, such as a slap, a swat, or “The Grip!”; b.) banishment, such as a walk down the hall to the Principal or Dean of Discipline, detention after school collecting garbage. c.) humiliation in front of your classmates. 

That last one was the most effective, but could occasionally backfire.

Ed Quinn was a force of nature - the most brazen, cocky, “how many moles, lard!” paraplegic who ever rolled wheelies through the hallowed halls of Servite. Despite his claw-like frozen fingers he could twirl a test tube, yell out “Cushing, how many moles?, and then blow up anything he wanted. His front lab table was his kingdom, his domain, and he enjoyed chemistry experiments, particularly ones that produced explosions, fire, and smoke.

As a high schooler, he undoubtedly was as good a hell-raiser as any of our best, even after the crash that broke his back and put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. That never slowed him down. 

Ed drove a Hot Wheels Camaro that was improvised to drive hands only. A colleague asked Ed if he could help him get into his Camaro. Ed shot back, “Hell no, I’m running late. I can’t have you slowing me down!” Ed slid into the front seat slick as a salmon jumping upstream, dumped his two limp legs on the floor of the driver's seat, and in a single turn of his torso he seized his wheelchair with his curled-up fingers, folded it, and flipped it in the backseat as smoothly as a jiu-jitsu blackbelt would. 

Ed expressed his fondness for his students by calling us “lards,” and his term of endearment for us as a group was “a bunch of lards.” He had a habit of calling out a student’s name at random.  “Magula, any questions?” Or “Heywood, what’s the valence?”  I suppose it was his way of keeping people on their toes, to pay attention. But I found it annoying when he would call my name. “Molina, what’s on your mind?”

I didn’t have anything much on my mind, definitely not chemistry. Probably I was listening in my head to the long version of the Doors Light My Fire organ solo. You can’t imagine how many hours I spent tapping my imaginary keyboard on my desk and playing that song during my four years at Servite. It was the only way I survived the long hours in the classroom.

So I was kind of cranky to be roused out of my trip. I knew if I said “nothing” he would jump on that. So instead I asked a question that I thought might be useful to a Servite sophomore.

“Can you create a fart in a chemistry lab?”

He wasn’t expecting that, and I could tell he was a little taken aback.

Unsettled by my question, he said maybe, probably.

I continued. “How would you go about that?”

Still off the beat, he muttered something to the effect that one could get a sample from a gas chromatograph which would show the different elements and amounts, and then mix them.

I was satisfied with that and went back to my organ solo.

Mr. Quinn was still visibly shaken by my question and ended the discussion by saying something in the way of “Well, I hope you are asking questions with the right intention.” 

Mr. Quinn never again asked me one of his questions, which I was grateful for. Mission accomplished. Or was it?

 I  didn’t realize until years later that he must have taken my question as a rude commentary on his physical disabilities. Hitting under the belt was certainly not my intention. Owning a canister of lab-made fart gas could have been a game changer. But judging by his reaction I guessed that he must have deemed me a real A-hole. That was the reason he never messed with me again. 

It is long justice for me now, decades later, to realize he must have thought I was that evil. Most likely he had done far worse things in high school and knew I was too stupid to be evil, just another jerk.

Long lesson learned: 

Don’t be a barbarian, nor a ne’er do well… a person who acts without consideration.

Sunset in Aguanga by Ricki T Thues

 

As I stand in the living room of my modest red cabin, the vaulted A-frame ceiling begins to glow with the warm hues of the setting sun. Through the sliding glass doors on the eastern wall are cumulus thunderheads, painted in delicate shades of orange and pink, drifting in a cerulean sky. Bandit, my black-masked white cat, chatters at the house finches flitting past the patio doors. 

The day's heat has left the air inside stuffy and slightly humid, resisting the window cooler's whining fan.

I unlock the glass door and slide it open, welcoming the evening breeze that sweeps in and instantly refreshes the air. 

As I step outside, a bird darts past my head, catching a slow-moving fly in midair. It heads toward the large, fully leafed acacia tree, where it joins its flock in a lively chorus of tweets and twitters. The eighty birds share their stories of the day blending their song with the soft rustling of leaves. Whether they will return to this tree tomorrow or find another sanctuary depends on their collective whim.

Behind me, Bandit meows through the screen door, yearning to chase the birds. But such a pursuit would likely end in her becoming prey to the bobcats and coyotes that roam this mountain chaparral. 

A stray raindrop splatters on my head, and I inhale the earthy scent of damp brush and decomposed granite.

To the east, a cliff, edged with heliotrope overlooks Cahuilla Valley. In the midst of this rural community, the airport runway lights blink on, stretching down the length of the valley like red Tivoli. To the south, I glimpse Lake Riverside, where small, dark boats bob gently, their fishermen hoping for dinner. 

My eyes travel across the amber fields and verdant hillsides to Mount Cahuilla, a rugged granite cinder cone from an ancient volcanic age. Eons ago this south face blew away scattering boulders across the valley. The mountain is now adorned in native green Salt Bush, Red Shank, and Manzanita. It stands as a testament to time. The Salt Bush’s white blossoms lend it a pastel glow, while the Manzanita is heavy with berries. The Red Shank's bark peels away to reveal a vibrant magenta, and its sprays of white flowers begin to rust. The ground beneath is alive with flowering buckwheat, wild oats, mustard, and prickly poppy plants. Hot pink flowers adorn the beavertail cacti. A mother quail leads her brood from bush to bush while the male stands sentinel on a boulder. Rabbits dash about in their evening frolic.

I begin a leisurely stroll around the exterior of my house. Straight to the east, Thomas Mountain outlines the horizon, a summit of the San Jacinto range that separates my valley from Palm Springs. As my gaze follows the range southward, I see the peak of Santa Rosa, home to a Coachella Indian tribe. The Pacific Crest Trail meanders along this skyline, tracing the undulating ridge of the Beauty Mountains and Mount Palomar. The white dome of Palomar Observatory sits near the summit, a hand’s width to the west. Farther west lies the Fallbrook mesa of the Cleveland National Forest. Due west, Saddleback Mountain stands, where the sun's sharp point sinks into its saddle. The sun explodes into a brilliant green flash and bursts into vibrant reds, oranges and lavender. The clouds’ edges glow fluorescent with the reflected light of sunset.

The breeze cools, and the birds quiet down. Cactus flowers close as the first stars begin to shimmer into view. A band of coyotes howls nearby. Bandit whimpers softly as I turn and reenter my little red house.

Blood and Sand by Paul Delgado

 Blood and Sand

Paul Delgado

When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a Matador.

I must have read I’ll Dress You in Mourning by Dominique La Pierre a dozen times.

I was fascinated by the drama and spectacle of “La Corrida”…the bullfight.

Manuel Benitez, “El Cordobes”, was my hero. He was a young kid from a poor

neighborhood in Andalusia and became the greatest matador in history.

I remember when my grandparents told me about Manolete, a famous Torero in

the forties, and about the great Conchita Citron, a fearless woman who fought on

horseback in the fifties. The images were captivating, and I knew I was destined

for glory in the bullring.

I had posters of the great matadors in my bedroom and even built a small carreta,

a contraption with horns mounted atop a frame with a bicycle wheel to imitate a

bull. I would have my little brother charge at me in the driveway for hours.

My wonderful Aunties, Tere and Lucy, even bought me a matador’s cape from

Mexico. Day in and Day out that summer I practiced.

One day, for my birthday, my Uncle Benny and Aunt Alice took me to my first

official bullfight in the Plaza de Toros de Tijuana. Despite Tijuana’s image as a

reckless border town, it attracted big talent from Mexico City and even Espana.

My Uncle Benny indulged my dream and called me “El Californiano”.

“Someday you will be like El Cordobes and fight in Mexico City and Madrid!”

The “Cartel de Toreros” that Sunday was stellar. Joselito Huerta and the great

Jaime Bravo were featured. I was over the moon.

My Uncle and Aunt picked me up from our house in La Mirada about 10 AM and

we drove to Tijuana. Crossing the border was easy compared to the present day and

we went to one of my Uncle’s favorite restaurants where we had lunch.

We then drove to the new bullring by the sea on the outskirts of the city. To me, it

was spectacular. As we made our way through the crowds and past the many

food vendors, my uncle bought us delicious churros to snack on as we found our

seats.

All of a sudden, the sound of trumpets announced the entrance of the Matadors.

Dressed in their “suit of lights”, they strode into the arena with capes draped over

their shoulders. I was enthralled.

The trumpets sounded again and “el toro” burst in from the tunnel.

A magnificent animal…proud and strong…he charged around the ring…snorting

and daring anyone to challenge him.

Then from behind a wooden barricade in the arena, Joselito Huerta stepped out

onto the sand. It was a surrealistic moment. Everything I dreamed of was coming

true.

Chants of Ole! Ole! resounded from the stands as Joselito performed magic with

his cape.

I saw myself just like him…performing dazzling displays of bravery and grace.

“I Will be El Californiano!” I told my Uncle. He smiled and said “yes, you will”

The trumpets sounded again and this time the matadors strode out with their

bandilleras…Brightly decorated short lances with pointed steel tips.

As the bull charged, they struck the bandilleras into the bull’s neck and the

streaming blood brushed against their suit of lights as they agilely spun away. The

crowd cheered.

I began to feel a little sorry for the bull, but this was “la corrida” and so far, it was

everything I dreamed of.

The trumpets sound again and the “Picadores” entered the arena with long

lances. Riding atop horses covered in padding, they charged the bull and rammed

their spears into the bull’s neck…Man oh man…gruesome is an

understatement…The idea is to weaken the bull’s neck muscles and lower his

neck for the matador to stab it for the kill.

The bull that day was strong and although bleeding profusely, he ferociously

charged the picador and gored the horse. The picador went down and the horse

was kicking and screaming on the ground. The other matadors ran out onto the

sand and distracted the bull so the picador could be carried off.

Then somebody from behind the parapet came out and shot the horse and a guy

with a team of dray horses from the tunnel appeared and dragged the dead horse

out.

Oh man.

The trumpets began to play again and it was time for “La Muleta” the dance of

death.. Joselito Huerta was daring with his red cape and sword.

Ole!…Ole!…the stands reverberated.

But as he spun…the bull hooked him and tossed him like a rag doll in the air and

as he writhed on the ground the bull tried to gore him again.

Blood was everywhere.

The other matadors ran out to distract the bull and draw it away while the medics

carried him off on a stretcher.

Oh man!

Then the trumpets sounded again and Jaime Bravo, the next matador…steps onto

the bloodied sand in the arena.

The crowd erupts with a roaring cheer and applause.

The bull charges.… Pass after pass …the bull is captive to the magic of his cape.

And in the last phase of the dance of death…He strikes his sword into the bull’s

neck.

But it was not a clean kill…the sword is only in halfway…

The bull is coughing blood and struggling…An image from a bad slaughterhouse

kill.

The crowd starts to boo.

The bull staggers and falls but still is trying to stand.

Then all of a sudden, from the tunnel, a couple of guys walk into the arena and

shoot the bull in the head. Then a team of horses unceremoniously drags it out of

the arena.

The matadors then stride around the arena to a mix of cheers and boos.

Walking out of the bullring among the crowds, the sun was beginning to set on

the ocean, and I was lost in thought.

Man oh man

What an afternoon.

On the drive back to La Mirada I was quiet in the car.

My Uncle asked me what I thought of the day.

“Still want to be a matador?”

I looked out the window of the car as we passed San Juan Capistrano and replied,

I’m not so sure anymore Tio.

I think my bullfighting days are over.

LOL!

Writer's Choice - Rick Thues

 Little Gidding (getting it done)

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always-
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

from Collected Poems 1909-1962 (Faber, 1974), by permission of the publisher, Faber & Faber Ltd.

haiku

you take a moment

and see nothing happening

except everything

--rickiT

Rick Thues