Fishing on the River (With You)

There are things that I’ve always wanted to share with someone special, a favored fishing spot is one of those things. The descent from down the canyon walls into coffeepot is a beautiful thing, a green river surrounded by a canyon of pines a bushes. I couldn’t wait to show Keli what fly fishing in Idaho is like. The bad part was that the fish weren’t too eager to show us a good time. They were rising but wouldn’t take our flies, no matter what we tried; I must have tried ten flies. Nevertheless, memories were made, no catching was done, but we got some good fishing in. Next time.

Desolation

Here's more to that story, this is the begining of it.

Chapter One

“For wheresoever the carcase is,
there will the eagles be gathered together” –ST MATTHEW 24:28

Glory and honor were the only thoughts belonging to Elias Roberts as he walked tall toward the President of the United States with a Smith and Wesson 44 In his right hand. His finger twitching slightly in anticipation of what might happen and if the destination could be achieved and glory attained. Elias harbored no personal ill will toward President Ulysses S. Grant, but rather only longed for a moment of fame and meaning to his otherwise meager existence. The nickel had warmed in the sweaty palm of his right hand, and as he drew he dropped the weapon causing a small but noticeable scene. One of President Grant’s personal attendants shot Elias Roberts, who died at the age of 21, alone. Taking two shots to the torso, one shot piercing the left lung and the other through the gut. Elias would only lay and smile at the floorboards until the lights of his eyes dimmed and grayed.
The papers would tell of the attempt, but his name was not mentioned. His family would not attend his funeral or show any kind of remembrance toward their lost son and brother. They believed his mind had gone insane and his will bent to that of the confederate loyalists he rode with on bank robberies and train heists. There was not a wife to mourn for the loss, and there were no children baring his namesake to wonder what had become of their father. His personal belongings were sold to pseudo gypsies in New York City for five dollars.
His closest friend was his brother, David, who would not take the news lightly and was surprised at the nonchalant behavior that the rest of his family carried towards the death. They had given up on the son that had been driven mad through war and robberies. His mother would note that when she looked in his eyes, she viewed chaos and an unquenchable loneliness. Grass grew thick around his headstone, and moss began to cover the north end and a part of the engraving which only read, “Elias Roberts, 1850-1871”.

King Chicken

I Am Your Rooster, and You Are My Hen.

If You Flew The Coop, I'd Bring You Back Again.

I'd Love You Tenderly and Make You

Nests of Soft Grass, And If Another Rooster

Tried To Take You I'd Stomp His Punk Ass!

So Baby Lay Your Head On My Shoulder,

I Am Your Rooster, Your King Chicken,

I Am Your Solider...

For Keli

You Make Me Laugh,
You Make Me Smile,
You Make My Knees Weak
and I Become A Pile...
I'd Buy You Flowers Everyday
Like Pansies and Roses,
and If I Could I'd Part Puddles of
Water For You Like Moses.

Desolation

This is a paragraph from a book i'm writing, it's pretty boring, but I keep writing and writing. I wonder if i'll ever complete any of the books or stories I start, that'll be my next goal. This story is about a gunfighter who is beggining to regret his decisions in life. This is a quick description of who he was.

"He sat at the dining table in the house that his father built long ago, his brown eyes surveying the grain in the wood. The natural consistencies caught his attention the same way most things do that people generally look over, the patterns on a blade of grass, or the thread count on linens. Most people took him for what he was, and what he appeared. A thick sandy brown beard covered his face, and if one looked close enough, they would see strands of red hiding in the brown. The hair on his head was darker and very thick, and if he’d lived to be eighty it never would have receded. On a good day his height was five feet eleven inches, and a bulky one hundred and eighty pounds, which was large for that day and age. When nervous, a stutter would make itself slightly known and then return to depths of his soul when he was comfortable. His guns were always on his hips or within reach. Trust had long since left his company, inside of his racked soul was true loneliness."

Despondent

When I was a boy I would count the stars, and would become angry as the number would change on me, then one day my Father told me that the stars are without number and that one could not possibly count them all, I remember being wrought up, perplexed, despondent. That was my loss. There is always the story of the one that got away, for me this was a 25-30 pound yellow catfish. As I pulled the monster in, he reared his ugly head out of the water, if only to tease me and give me a glimpse of his splendor before returning to the murk. That was my loss. The good part about losses, is that you always gain experience, and you gain an appreciation for what you didn't lose...

There and Back Again

I haven't been able to go home for quite some time now, but the call to Memphis had finally been heard. My Nieces and Nephews are growing up alot, it makes me sad to know that I have and am going to miss so much with them. Memphis is still as I remembered it, the color green is everywhere, and the air is never completely silent. We took Jayden fishing for her first time, and true to southern form she caught one, a little channel catfish. I was excited for her, I can't recall the first fish I caught, but the thrill is still there when I catch one now.