"A Story of the Night" - Short Story

The sidewalk glistened after the rain. The smell of tread asphalt, dusty graffitied glass, weathered steel, stale exhaust, incinerated weed, all assumed an almost fresh quality. A chilly, joyful breeze traversed each alleyway and street corner, bringing glad aromatic tidings of the recent rainwater that had fallen from the generous expanse above. Joyful breeze though it was, it remained woefully ignorant that much of the rain was lost for usefulness by falling on the porous fields of asphalt and the tar-thatched roofs of dirty strip mall buildings.

An oblong shape spanned half the width of the sidewalk in front of a shuttered performance theater, covered end-to-end by a damp quilted comforter, white in color in its better days. A passer-by had only to guess that some unfortunate soul was making a hearty attempt at slumber. Stepping to the side and continuing their way, perhaps passer-by would give a half-hearted thought to checking the shape for signs of life or, worse, expired life. But thought quickly returned to the mundane, the comfortable things of life, and no more considered the curious shape.

The shape moved slightly against the cold.

Dark clouds outlined dramatically against the twilight sky. The clearing of the air and the sparkling of the streets somehow made the approaching evening seem brighter than normal in the cloudy moonlight. It made the inner romantic desire to sit outside amid the rain-cleansed scenery, next to a loved one, to stay awake all night and see what the world did between the hours of 1:30 and 6:00 in the morning. To chat about beauty, to inhale life’s misty essence before it disappeared with the coming of the evaporating powers of the sun. To observe moving clouds and moving people, dripping tree branches, steamy breath. To feel inexorably connected to all, and yet removed from the nitty gritty of all. Lifted high by staying still, low to the earth.

An aspiring rock star hauled pieces of his drum set up the basement stairs of a nearby bar. The gritty stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer following him up after the conclusion of his band’s half-hour gig before a grand audience of nineteen people. He paused at the top of the stairs, stick bag in hand, to take in the fresh night with a deep inhale. If he wasn’t reminded why he loved life at this very moment, perhaps the twenty-five dollars in his pocket would help jog his memory. The night’s take was not as much as at other gigs, but at least he had enough to fill up his gas tank and grab a bite to eat on the way home to his wife and warm bed.

His car now fully packed, the drummer shared a final laugh with his bandmates before bidding them farewell until the next gig. He turned around to take in a final view of the downtown street and the boarded-up theater across from the bar. It was then that he spotted the oblong shape outlined brightly on the damp sidewalk, covered in dirty white. His right hand fingered the twenty- and five-dollar bills in his pocket, and his mind pondered. He frowned and turned his back, cinching his scuffed leather jacket tighter around his skinny frame; the laughing memory of raindrops filled his olfactory senses as he slowly walked back to his car.

The heady feeling of the bills in his pocket inexplicably slowed his feet down even further, as if by bewitchment. He turned back around and, struggling to make a decision, noticed that the shape had moved yet again in the cold just as a couple-in-lust walked by without even a glance. The shape was just another piece of street litter barely registering in the consciousness.

But the shape had a name, and it was called James. And James still felt the chill rain deep in his bones.

"Of the Earth" - Short Story

He escaped the sprawl of suburbia, those walled-off faux-resplendent stuccoed cul-de-sacs with high, noble names such as Stonybrook and Glenmarsh and Something-Oak and Laurel-Whatever, nature words designed to trick the mind into accepting the abundance of fake brick and stone and wood. He escaped with his family to trade speedy six-lane roads and barren sidewalks and strip-mall monuments for…what, exactly?

Crumbling bricks and drafty floorboards? Check.

Stolen bikes and wary glances from unwashed drifters? Check.

Mature plants giving much-needed shade and beauty in exchange for rich, sandy soil in this marshland-turned-metro? Well-used sidewalks with ancient memories of walkers and bike riders and barely holding down large tree roots? A diversity of peoples and incomes and housing, with no property the same and each chronicling a long history in its dusty bones?

Life? Creativity? Possibility? Togetherness? Appreciation for all things old and genuine and unique and natural? Moving to the city center, he found that he could tentatively check these all off, and that he could scarce be convinced to move anywhere else in town from that time onward.

After parking his car and retrieving his laptop from the trunk on a certain mid-April morning, he noticed that a cool breeze, fresh after a mild rain, played with the cigarette smoke curling into the air from the smoker’s patio attached to the corner coffee shop. The rancid aroma of incinerated tobacco danced intimately with the savoriness of freshly-ground coffee beans, and it flirted with the slight olfactory evidence of someone smoking a hidden joint of weed around the corner. Rainwater, now resting on the ground, had cleared the air of the ever-present smog in this typically dry valley town; it made temporary room for the sweet scent of the blooming trees nearby, and of grass, and of a reminder to look up and revere the oft-hidden mountains surrounding the city in the distance. The sun played peek-a-boo between clear blue sky and gray clouds that were ringed in silver-white. This orgy of the senses produced an offspring of organic thought in him: This is earth, and we are of the earth, and we ingest the earth, and we create the earth.

The coffee shop served as an eclectic collective of people and roles. Business was conducted. Old friends were caught up. New friends were made. Religious devotees hoped that their prayers and studies of their sacred texts, conducted in the open public, would bear good witness to all the unconverted heathens. Musicians hoped that their connections would lead to the next big thing. Artists hoped for their next commission, their next full tank of gas, as they stared intently at the incomplete shading of their paper creation – perhaps they should use a darker pencil for this part of the calf muscle…maybe a 7B?

Coffee baristas concentrated on uplifting the plain existence of hot water poured through the tortured remains of small tropical berries or plant leaves, like priests and priestesses performing a holy rite with the barest of earthly ingredients. They concentrated, yes, but they were not concerned with the art. No, they were concerned with their next car payment or with their son’s toothache or with their mother’s recent health scare. They were concerned about the belligerent druggie who would always come in for free water and leave a mess in the bathroom. They were concerned about the stabbing that happened last night up the street. They were concerned about what they were going to fix for dinner with the few staples in their kitchen. They were concerned about how many reactions their latest social media post received, and about trying to stave off the anxiety and depression that hounded so many of their fellow humans in the modern digital realities of hyper-connectivity and high-speed insecurity.

He entered the coffee shop and breathed in the familiarity. His second office, his second home. There, behind the counter, toiled his friends. All around, his family consumed and lived and created. And he joined the ritual, trading credits for caffeine, to sit alone yet not alone at a wobbly table in order to conduct his own business and keep the economic machinery lubed and running.

After a few hours, he had to pack his things away and put his mind toward the client that needed help on-location. He drove away from the city center, the center of his life, and proceeded over the bridge spanning the always-dry riverbed. Out of habit, he glanced to the right to take in the sight of the bare riverbed leading up to the eastern foothills and the now-clear mountains beyond. But today, he was witness to the very rare sight of water cutting a shallow path. He turned his head to the left and confirmed the happy circumstance. He smiled inside himself, and he thought: There is water in the river, and today is a good day. 

"Darci the Drummer" - Book

Back in 2018, I released a self-published children’s book about music and drumming called “Darci the Drummer: Takes Drum Lessons”.

It’s about a girl named Darci who passionately wants to be a great drummer, and she makes a LOT of noise banging around on pots and pans and everything in between (much to the chagrin of her brother Danny), but she isn’t sure how to get started on that path to actually knowing how to play the drums. So, her parents surprise her with drum lessons!

It was available on Amazon for a good long while, but I’ve since taken the book off the market due to costs. However, if you’re in the Portland, OR area, stop by Music Millennium at 3158 E. Burnside and you might be able to grab your very own copy! And of course, I also have a limited number of copies here in Bakersfield, CA available for sale for $10.00 each.

Who knows? If there’s enough interest again down the road, perhaps I’ll give the book another go on Amazon! Check back here periodically for any updated news on that front. And in the meantime, I’m also working on other children’s stories that may one day catch the eye of a publisher or three… I’ll certainly update this page if anything like that happens, have no fear!