“Vicarious Tales of Woe”

“Can one die vicariously through another?”
a short rambling by S. Redenbaugh

Patriotic Nymphomaniac was written on the card she handed me. I wasn’t sure if she was in a band or trying to pick me up but it certainly was a conversation starter. We drank heavily and talked deep into the half moon night. It was like being a teenager again, tapping back into that stamina that used to race through the veins. Laughing from the heart. Each sharing small intimate stories we hadn’t told anyone else in years. Silly kid stuff in full-grown adult bodies, we were having a type of fun that doesn’t happen that easily after ones thirties. Comfortable with each other so quickly, a wordless trust was expressed through our eyes. Her hands, softly touching my wrist, punctuating her reply to my child like question. I hung on every word she spoke; even those that one-day would become irritating if we were to ever marry. She laughed at my silly jokes, even those that would become irritating if we were to ever marry. I was mesmerized, awestruck, and I felt lightheaded watching her slightest of moves. I couldn’t help but notice the way her lips curved up when she smiled. It was the first day of the rest of our lives together.

The cancer claimed her last Tuesday; 3 months to the day she told first me. She had known when we met, but when would be a good moment she would say later, the prognoses were good then. Her treatments always coincided with visits to her fathers or work trips away, her secret held so close for two years, the double pain she must have felt. I still wish I would have known from the start, I couldn’t help but think I might have been able to do something, its human nature to think so. I do not fault her though; the love she gave me was one that I consider infinitely lucky to have had in my lifetime. It will never be matched in the life I still have left.

The day she found out it had grown, that death was all that was left was the day she sat me down and said she had to tell me something. I didn’t have a clue of what she was going to say having never seen that look in her teary eyes before, but I knew it was going to change my entire life.

We held each other and cried for the entire first week, we both took family leave from work, neither caring about anything in the world outside of us. I felt an array of emotions, from anger and betrayal to fear and hopelessness, but I kept them to my self. My mask was one of strength, but I know she knew better. I wanted this to be her time, what ever was left it was going to be spent doing the things we had planed and talked about.

The house was sold, and both cars traded in for a shiny white convertible. We jumped on the adventures after talking with her doctor. “We” didn’t have long. For her, our trips were something she had always dreamed of, for me, I didn’t notice anything but her. Sadly, I also believe it was a nightmare for her at the same time, knowing the memories we were making would be left to me with no one to share them with. It was unspoken, and unshakably it was there for the rest of her life. I knew she was mentally counting off each of the few days we knew she had before her body would shut down. I ignored the calendar, but in her eyes I knew the count.

In the final days she laid in our bed. I had moved it into our home office where she could look out into her garden. She had made beautiful things grow there, and had spent countless hours working the ground. I can still taste the abundance of what she grew, and her lust for life. She is everywhere I look doing all that she did in life. I can also still taste her. I can still feel her soft hands in mine. I can still hear her call my name, weak, tired, and at deaths door, telling me to water her garden. I knew what she meant, that was her way of saying it was time, and I took her in my arms, softly kissing her goodbye.

Tomorrow will be one week, although the days have no meaning to me any more. The grief is beyond anything I have ever known, or anything I have ever felt. It is in these silent moments that strangely I realize that I have also died vicariously through what she went through.

Through it all, her love stayed as strong for me as when we met. Mine grew in ways I can’t explain. I remember in the end when I tried to make her believe that I believed that I would be all right. She smiled at me and called me a liar, but it wasn’t hurtful, it wasn’t spoken with anger. It was in a softer tone. It was as if she was able to mentally paint a picture for me, one of her arms holding me one last time. Still sobbing like the little boy that once lived in this giants skin I felt her stop breathing and I knew I was alone again.

“The History of Something in the Future”

“The History of Something in the Future”
or “Smoking My Way In”
A short story by S. Redenbaugh



As I cram myself deeper into this slot fissure inside the cave I smile. Fitting into it requires me to exhale than push through the small opening that angles up a mud slope . This is something you don’t do alone, I do, but you shouldn’t. Once in, I look for the winters ravage on the room. The air here is cold, and its smell is that of wet mud and clay. Catching my breath, I reach into my mud crusted cave pack and remove a twelve inch by three eights of an inch iron pipe. I unscrew the end and slide out a stick of Nam Champa incense. I bang my elbow on the wall behind me as I light the stick and place it into the mud floor below my feet. Looking down I see history before me.

When smoke travels perpendicular to an incense stick there is a very good reason. Airflow strong enough to push the smoke away from the upright stick is the tell tale sign of more cave beyond my present reach. I am knocking upon this heavens door.

Three years ago I broke into this fissure and pushed it as far as possible. Every Saturday night after spending the day there I would nurse the gashes and rips in my fore arms from attempting to place my body into a narrow slot smaller than my sum total parts. I had to.

Just beyond where I can get to lies a huge room, thus the airflow. I can see the blackness of this void; her name is The Apricot Gardens because of the fruit colored blobs growing on the ceiling. She has kept her virginity from me far to long.

This narrow slot fissure is about ten feet tall but is on a slant, keeping me from standing. In most places here the walls are so close to my face that I have to close my eyes to keep from going insane, its only when facing straight down the fissure that I can look. For a man with claustrophobia I pick strange things to entertain myself with.

Today, by proving the airflow is worthy of altering the entrance I take steps to remove her obstacles. I drilled eleven one inch holes eighteen inches deep into the stone wall that is doing just that in its blocking my way on. Inside these holes a licensed professional will pack them with a state of the art expanding agent and I’ll leave it at that. The expansion will take place Tuesday after work, then Thursday; I’ll reenter and remove the rubble. I hope to then push into the virgin passage with glee.

Parkinson’s Pete Rides Again

“Good, Good, Bad Vibrations”
or “Parkinson’s Pete Rides Again”
An extremely short story by:
S.Redenbaugh


Vibrations deep within the earth go unfelt by most, yet he noticed them all. Each day as he went about his business he could sense the coming wave of movement. He had learned not to say things about them because the others never understood, and they would pass. He also hated the sound of cardboard.

To his knowledge and based upon earlier experiences, these feelings were only shared with common ants and certain birds. One day when he was eight he had felt one coming, somewhere near the mile deep mark he happened to glance back at the ant farm he was holding. The ants were noticeably upset and were scurrying in circles, almost as if they had all been held beneath a magnifying glass in the hot sun. Then it hit. They all knew. He also knew not to tell his parents again.

When you and I feel an earthquake we know it and we will talk about “it” at the water coolers of the work place. If it has been above a 7.0 we’ll talk about it again the next day. The 1989 California quake was talked about for months. For him, that earth shift sent him to the Holland Hospital for the Mentally Disturbed until yesterday. Yesterday he was “released” after spending the past sixteen years there. He wasn’t crazy, we just needed to run a few tests on him and lost track of the time.

He had been at the market shopping that day. He had first felt it as he opened a carton of eggs to check them. As the first shock wave shot upwards toward the surface the eggs began to vibrate. The shells quivered slightly, nothing we would notice, but he had. The noise that glass bottles make as they began to touch each other had sent him racing towards the exit. No one ever knew he had dropped the eggs because a minute later every egg there was destroyed.

We estimate the quake to have been at least 8 miles below the crust when he first felt it. What he felt at that moment was what we feel when a big one over 7.0 “hits”. For him the quake had lasted 4 minutes longer then the one we “felt”. He knew the power this one had as he had ran out into the street. His eyes had searched for someway to tell the others, but the beatings as child crying wolf would not let him say the words out loud. Each ten thousandth of a second it grew closer, his ears ached as if concert speakers from a heavy metal band had been duct taped to each one. The vibrations would have almost been detectable on a rector scale at this point. He ran towards the alley and crawled beneath a pile of boxes, cardboard boxes. His worse fears were nothing compared to the next 8 minutes.

His Doctor used to tell me that if I were to watch his right index finger I would see that he lifted it several times an hour. Like a serrated nerve gaining a split second of connectivity it would jump straight out, pausing, then slowly relaxing back into the ball his hands made when he slept. We finally proved those were connected to actual earth movements as the technology improved. Hooking up a Chisel 5000, which is a super sensitive earth movement monitor we recorded his “marking” of the beginning of each one to a, however small, tremor. He could “predict” earthquakes up to 2 minutes before the machine picked it up. He was a deep earth seismograph. We never told him that ours had come in a cardboard box.

Annie had long grown tired of the waiting for him to return back to their life. She only had known about his vibration sensitivities through the secret readings from his journals. He had kept them from his childhood and they contained hundreds of thousands of “events”. His writings of them seemed to be an outlet to purge their damaging effects on his life. He had suffered alone through them all after being put into a hospital by a drunken father who accused him of knocking over his beer when he was four. The Sperm Donor didn’t like his kid blaming the earth for ruining his prized perfect bowling scorecard with a lap full of suds. No matter how much he had begged between each slap, each hit his word vocabulary was no match for an abusive father. He left with Annie yesterday.

The sun was just starting to come up as they left and he drove. Annie smiled watching him as they finally were through with the tests. She had watched us hook him to countless devises through out the years, and even though some of them had hurt, she never got upset. She seemed to understand that we would one day tire of his abilities and find someone new to play with. I will always remember him fondly as an incredibility gifted man and she as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

I made my final notes when the phone rang. I picked it up and felt chills run up my spine. I had never told anyone else about this, it was my secret, my burden. Someone was rubbing cardboard on the other end of the wireless line. I hung up and shivered. This wasn’t funny, but I thought I understood why he had called. He had learned as much about me as I had of him. Then I felt something else, and I called out to Martha, my secretary. “No”. she replied, she hadn’t felt anything………………..

Me and Bobbie Malone

He was just this way I thought, as his face slammed into my fist, stubborn. When he got this way, only being beaten unconscious would stop him. I tried talking first, believe me but for now I would have to continue striking him.

I hated violence, unless it stops a death, then I’m first in line. Bobbie Malone wasn’t dying on my watch, although he would wake up in a hospital. I guess to someone who didn’t know him you might think him insane, but you’d be only scratching the surface of his complete psychosis.

Watching Bobbie Malone is like being on fudge with a pot cake, and as clear as the backwash of a tsunami. Bobbie wasn’t like us, he wasn’t like anyone, nor did many think him completely human.

After many vicious moments Mr. Malone was no longer moving, so I checked his pulse, it was fine, and now after his recovery so would he, at least until next time.

Ramblings on my mind

Ramblings on a mid summers night

or, a point somewhere.

A short ramble by S Redenbaugh


We had an understanding, they being the Jock’s at West Lambert High and myself, a longhaired hippie freak. It was 1973 and the world was my oyster. I was in the prime of my life; I just had no idea at the time.

1973 was so long ago it’s back in style again, only I’m on the outside looking in. The landscape was very different then, as were we. The Jocks of course were the athletic souls that set records, drank beer and had the best bad girls. They came from families that placed a high value on those records, and high five’d one another under the table on the conquests of the females they kept handy. They drove fast cars, and lived the same way. It was also them that bestowed the nic-name “The Freaks” upon us.

You see, the year before I had an experience that altered my thought process forever. I had just moved from a small rural town with a population of 5300 people. A product of a no fault divorce (the victims), Mom and I moved 2500 miles away, on the day after my last day of my 1st year of High School. I know, its sometime hard to follow, you see, I came home from school and there was a moving van parked in front of the loser, 2 bedroom apartment my Mother and I had been forced into after Pop chased a weasel.

She hadn’t told me this until then, but she needed us to move out to Indianapolis. Her own Mother was near death with cancer and things couldn’t get much worse here. So, the next day, without proper time to say any goodbyes we split. Years down the road the collective group of Psychiatrists who “helped” me since then would tell me that this was the reason I deal with death and rejection the way I do. Anyway, The high school had maybe 350 students there, and the new High School in Indianapolis had 6000, the second largest high school at the time.

Trying to fit in at North Central High to whatever group would want me, it was there that I made the decision to part my hair down the middle and grow it long. The few kids that accepted me all had longer hair so the connection seemed clear. Many of the above mentioned Quacks would say this was the manifestation of a young boys cry for help, clear, and classic, but Mom had bigger issues at the time so I went back from Easter Break a new man, finishing the year sitting behind a huge girl that had the smell of grilling onions coming from her armpits. My hair kept growing, but so did the uncertainness of a misguided youth unfamiliar with the reflection in the mirror.

So by the time the summer of 1972 ended my Grandmother had past away, God rest her soul, and my Mom had re-married. She married a wonderful father figure who moved us north into his house, and that is when I met the Jock’s. Although I couldn’t have had a better new Father I pushed away. Maybe from fear of being rejected once again, first by the Weasel Chaser, and then by an array of “Big Brother’s” that just didn’t like me and stop calling, I don’t know. I just didn’t use the resources available to me until later in life. He was a great man, a great Father, and he taught me who I am today, at least the good parts.

When I started my Junior year my hair was to my shoulders. Uprooted once again, like a witness protection subject hiding from town to town, my identity changed again, reinvented I hoped to get it right this time, yet still miles from knowing what really made me tick. But, my hair was long and straight, much like the path I would walk each day to and from my 3rd new school in 3 years. Oh boy.

On the first day of school I started walking towards West Lambert High, my mind racing as to what this year’s crop of homegrown locals would be like. I was sad over losing the 2nd set of friends that should have been here, to help me find truth, and the way through this crazy thing called High School. But NO, my steering committee was again just some pimpled faced kid, unsure of life or how it worked, wishing for someone to hold his hand and make it all better again. Underneath my hardened shell a psychoanalysts wet dream lurking in a small child in a bumbling boy body, but with the long hair I prayed would somehow change all that. I also understood that all the things I learned from the last set of friends was really nothing more than just male cow poop scooped up and held as the truth, at least for that stinking moment. Still, in my heart the reality was that I was once again, and for the 3rd time walking into a place of mystery, and for the 2nd time, alone.

Alone, from the Greek language meaning to die a thousand deaths inside for no comprehendible reason other than I somehow knew my own Mothers happiness was at an all time high. I knew that I had sucked it up at 12, guided her home to mend and that now was suppose to be my time for the healing, for the acceptance of the pain and for the help I knew I needed. The final piece had been the new marriage. I hid more than my face under the long hair. If you think adult men are the worse at being stubborn asking for directions along life’s busy hi-ways, you ain’t been a teenaged boy.



The sky was clear and fresh that day, I made mental notes of places I could hide until school was out, but I knew I couldn’t do that. Not because I wouldn’t, but because my Mother had taken a job as The Superintend of Public Schools secretary. In fact, most everyone that worked in my new school was connected to my new father. Miss any day, any time and she’d know. It was about then one my first day walk to WLH that I saw a beautiful girl crossing the street ahead of me. I slowed down so we wouldn’t meet but she turned and said “Hello”. She told me that her name was Katrina, which may have been Greek for girl with hair down to her, ah, her butt.

It was through her that I met the others like me. Broken children from broken homes, afraid, and good at hiding being bad. Even if it was just across the street in a vacant lot where we smoked pot before school. A new meaning to the term “higher learning” was born, at least for me. It was on this first day that I started to become poplar for the first time in my life. The new kid in town with, now get this, an accent! The Boys and Girls of the hippie community welcomed me with open arms and full bowls of low grade smoking materials. We were “The Freaks” and the Jock’s had mandated where we couldn’t smoke cigarettes during breaks. They claimed the entire front of the school, and we were to go to the North side of the building. This was our understanding. Stay away from them and live. Cross them and die, and for the next one and a half years that’s what I did, mostly.

My hair kept growing, but so did the uncertainness of a misguided youth unfamiliar with the reflection in the mirror. Who was that boy performing a magic trick with the cut off straw in his nose? I adapted, and through it I survived. The cost is still being worked out, the collateral damage totaled, and the benefits worked on.

To this day I think back upon those years of aimless rambling, late night smoke outs and learning to keep fear deep inside with a twisted smile. I remember all the hours of stupidity, and of all the broken hearts I gave and received. I was a teenaged moron; glad to never have been both the prior and a father. It was our day of sexual promiscuity, and unprotected hearts, and free love only cost a joint.

Now, as I sit here, wondering what ever happened to any of them, those friends that shared the pains, the fears, and the uncertainty I am somehow at peace. Where once the overwhelming need to contact them would fill my every waking moment, tonight there is only peace, and a joint.

Warlords of my past

It was 1956, and the jungle was impenetrable to everyone but me. I had spent my formidable years there, in the bowls of the cavernous rain forests. I had learned to be self sufficient by 7 years old. I could catch game, kill and cook it, all while making a swell hat from the skins. The vast cave systems were my subway, many passing through piles of the treasures hidden by the looting Spaniards 400 years ago.

I had been 13 when the jungle had become over run with warlords that fought for the “rights” to smuggling the cocaine across the Peruvian jungles for the young cartels being formed. The warlords brought terror to my people. We left in the middle of the night, exiting our hut through the hole made by the fire out back. The out back being set afire by the Indians as a sign of respect of our family, two feet wide it would allow us to depart instantly as long as we followed only it.

It was followed through out that dark night, where the smoke of burning huts hung low and the children’s cries went unanswered. I would latter learn that those very children grew up under the powerful cartels, parentless small versions of soldiers fighting a war that still blows in the winds today.

As daylight broke, we found ourselves walking a red clay path that ran along the river.
4 months later we found ourselves in the United States, cold hungry and in poverty. Over the course of the next 7 years my father worked his trade as a carpenter and my Mother washed the linens of Ladies. I on the other hand was forced to wear shoes and clothing, oh, and I wasn’t allowed near the fishpond on the hillside estates.



August 7th, 2006-

Today I found the above words while going through my grandfather’s things, it was found on the back of an old map ripped in two. There appears to be another half to it that completes it. I wanted to get this out so if anyone has Granddads map briefcase let me know-

Hiway Companion -A CD Review

As I listen to Petty’s songs here it is like I am sitting with an old friend. So many songs here that flow over my heart like water through a cave.

From the 2006 CD Hiway Companion
By Tom Petty


“Square One”

Had to find higher ground-
Had some fear to get around-
You can’t say what you
Don’t know-
Later on won’t work no more-

Last time through I hid my tracks-
Sowell I could not get back-
Yeah my way was hard to find-
Can’t sell your soul for peace
Of mind-

Square one, my slate is clear-
Rest your head on me my dear-
It took a world of trouble-
It took a world of tears-
It took a long time to get
Back here-

Try so hard to stand alone-
Struggle to see past my nose-
Always had more dogs than bones-
I could never wear those clothes-

It’s a dark victory-
You won and you also lost-
Told us you were satisfied-
But it never came across-

Square one, my slate is clear-
Rest your head on me my dear-
It took a world of trouble-
It took a world of tears-
It took a long time to get
Back here-



Another great line and song is off “Big Weekend” where he sings “If you don’t run you rust”

And his song
“Damaged By Love”

she don’t care about time-
time gets in her way-
fades into the wind-
days roll into days-

shes got nothing to hide-
and she hides it so well-
keeps broken dreams
to fix up and sell-

damaged by love-
damaged by love-
so young-
and damaged by love-

theres rain on the road-
and the faithful have gone-
in a crowd all alone-
walking ‘round in a song-

damaged by love-
damaged by love-
so young-
and damaged by love-

eyes down at my door-
and she holds out her hand-
I love you so deep-
But you can’t understand-

damaged by love-
damaged by love-
so young-
and damaged by love-

My heart still beats

Life is funny
A short story by S. Redenbaugh


“Listen”, she said as she drove the knife deep into my heart, “you were never meant to love me” She laughed so wickedly and walked out, leaving me in a puddle of blood, dying both inside and out. I stumbled to the window and watched her drive away in my 07 BMW. I thought for a moment whether I wanted to call 911 or just sit down and die, but I have always hated to make rush decisions so I wanted more time, which equaled 911. I pulled out the knife and waited.

I woke up in the hospital with wires and tubes running from my body to beeping machines, and though I could tell someone was sitting at the end of the bed I could not focus on whom it was. I attempted to raise my hand but failed, looking down I could see that I was strapped down at both wrists. It was then I heard his voice. “Mr. Jackson, my name is Detective Fripp and I have a few questions for you.” “Such as, why did you try and kill yourself?” I heard his words which connected my being bound but didn’t make sense, digesting his query I closed my eyes.

Three months later I walked out the door from the hospital, a free man in to many ways for my tastes. I had been cleared of attempted suicide, and she was now in police custody, my car though had been set on fire in some remote area south of the city. I knew that by now my houseplants would be way past dead but headed home nonetheless.

The police tape around my house had been removed. I had seen it while watching TV during my recovery, which the doctors said was nothing short of a miracle. Some how the blade of the knife curved when it struck my ribcage and had missed my heart by a measurement so tiny it boggled the mind.

I turned the knob and walked in. There appeared to be no sign that I had been stabbed in here 90 days ago. I wondered who might have cleaned the blood stains up, but really it didn’t matter that much. I hit the button on my machine and was told I had 122 messages. I then hit the button that deletes them all so quickly and quietly. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, and then sat down on the same chair I sat in when she had attacked me. It seems softer, like the stuffing had been replaced. This brought a very sickening feeling to my stomach. I dropped to the floor and flipped the chair over; taking out my pocketknife I ripped the bottom liner open. I then crammed my arm up inside and felt nothing. This would not be good I thought, sipping my beer while sitting on the floor.

Four days later my phone rang. It was a woman who said she had something that I probably would want. I asked her what it was, to which she said I knew. We arranged a meeting and I left. Stopping by the bank I entered and went straight to the safety deposit box window. I confirmed my identity and was soon alone, opening a small metal box. I withdrew a 9 millimeter Glock which I stuck in my waistband.

A dark blue SUV pulled up at the meeting spot, and the drivers’ window was rolled down. I exited my Jeep and wasted little time as I pumped 4 shots into the man at the wheel. Quickly I determined he was alone. The search of his car produced nothing I wanted. I then emptied a one-gallon can of gas out inside the car and tied a lit cigar to the steering wheel. I slammed the door and drove away. The explosion could be seen in my rear view mirror a minute later.

An hour later my cell phone rang and her tone wasn’t pleasant. She told me the price had just doubled and the time frame to retrieve my item was shortened. I listened to her instructions and hung up. I reloaded the Glock and whipped a u-turn. I soon pulled into an alley behind the Maxi-Bowl, which had been closed, during my hospital stay. I could see two men with semi automatic rifles pointing at me, and figured there would be a few more. I fired off two shots killing them both and then came under fire. I slammed the Jeep into reverse and smoked the tires. I also was able to throw a smoke grenade out the window. As the smoke built I exited the moving Jeep and took cover behind a industrial trash can. The jeep stayed straight for a moment then hit a parked car. Its alarm began to sound and I heard footsteps running towards my location. Three men carrying Uzi’s past me and soon lay face down in puddles of each of their own blood. I reloaded and ran towards the bowling alley. The door was opened and I inside stayed low as I entered. No movement was detected as I stood and walked to a desk that sat in the center of the room. There was also a chair with handcuffs on it and a few small electrical wires sitting next to it. They ran down to a car battery.

Again my cell rang, only this time it was Detective Fripp. He wanted to know if I had time to come downtown for a chat about a burnt out SUV with a crispy man full of bullet holes. I suggested he talk to my attorney and hung up. The phone rang again. This time it was a man yelling at me. He told me that my item was now on its way to the local FBI branch. He also told me that I was a fool. I replied that I was indeed a fool, and that I would find him and kill him. I searched the room and found what all people looking for clues find, a book of matches.

The jeep was still usable and I backed out of the alley and headed towards “Vic’s” bait shop. I did so not out of a need for fishing supplies but because that’s where the matches came from. When I turned the corner and drove up “18th” street I saw the police cars all over Vic’s. I turned off and went to plan “B”.

Plan “B” was not as good as “A” but I would still be able to salvage my day. The officer at the Stanislaus County jail looked me over as if I had a head wound, but allowed me to visit the wife who had tried to kill me. See didn’t look surprised to see me, and was glad that we were separated by a glass partition. We dispensed with the formalities and I told her I wouldn’t testify against her on the attempt murder charges if she’d give me the name of the woman who was apparently trying to kill me. I left a minute later and dialed the number I had gotten.

As I left the jail I saw two squad cars following me, Fripp must have been tipped off. I had no beef with them so I would have to lose them. Hurting good cops wasn’t allowed in my universe. As I began to accelerate she answered and told me he that I had one more chance to obtain my item. I was to drive out to the lake south of town. She’d call me with further instructions once I was there. I informed her I would need a few extra minutes to lose my tail. She agreed and we hung up.

I pulled the pins on two smoke grenades and tossed them a few seconds apart. As the second one flashed coating everything with a thick smoke cloud I pulled over and parked. Seconds later two police cars shot past me and I flipped another u-turn.

The lake was desolate. I pulled over by the marina and my cell rang. I knew that meant she was watching me. I scanned the possible locations she could be hiding at and saw only a large tent half way up a hill. I listened to her and reached under the seat. I pulled up an outdated Soviet surface-to-surface rocket launcher and pointed it out the window. I squeezed the trigger. The explosion could be heard through the phone right before the call was dropped.

I hoped for the best and drove home. If my item was inside with her I would still be ok. The heat from the missile would have melted it. The knife used to stab me would no longer have a chance to surface at her trial. I would still be able to save her from her self.

The trial was never held, I had stuck by my statement I had given from the start, that I had stumbled and fell into the knife. Even though they had never believed me, mostly because the knife was never found and people that accidentally stab themselves can usually locate the knife, she was let go. I was being watched closely but I did get her home.

Three hours later she was dead and I had ditched the cops again. I headed north thinking how she had been right when she said I was never meant to love her. I had been paid to kill her through a hit contract but thought she was way to pretty to kill. I guess I was wrong.

“Noxious weeds and the search for Granite”

“Noxious weeds and the search for Granite”
A motion study of 50-year-old knee’s in the Sierra’s
A short story by S. Redenbaugh


Up at 7, packed and out the door by the grace of God we exited the city and drove into the Stanislaus National Forest, home to the lake Pinecrest. We arrived 2 hours early so we could honor our friend and employee Mike by hiking the perimeter of the lake. A memorial for him was scheduled for 2 at this lake he loved so much, so we set off and put the 4 miles of beauty filled alpine lake scenery into the memory banks. A man made lake that laps against the granite mountain range that holds in her waters, surrounded by pines of every type and size that fill the air with their scent. A sweet walk in the woods.

A fitting service was held, and over seventy-five friends and family were on hand to honor him. As the young crowd broke to began an additional honoring of their friend through the drinking and smoking of mind-altering substances we split.

Down the road a bit we turned from the hi-way and found ourselves heading deeper into a canyon on a one lane, rutted dirt logging road. Miles into the name unknown canyon we spotted some beautiful Hornspar, which is a type of granite that was either heated to much or to little during the formation of the Sierras. It littered the hillside and we pulled over to collect the slabs. In minutes we had the Jeep half filled with the soon to be patio material. Further down the road we found what I truly sought, flat, white square-ish black-specked granite. Slabs about an inch thick lay where gravity placed it after so many cycles of expansion and contraction. Scooped up we layered them in the rear of the jeep, tossing everything else into the back seat. Into the sunset we went and into our rear patio that borders the new waterfall the slabs now set. Oh yeah, it was in that canyon we found all these weeds with yellow “noxious weed” tape wrapped around them, which was weird.

Film Review of "A Good Woman"

A Good Woman

I believe that Oscar Wilde would stand and applaud the combined talents of Helen Hunt, Tom Wilkinson, and the ever-bodacious Scarlett Johansson in this excellent film version of his play. Brilliant performances of such a stellar screenplay make this a MUST SEE film, or DVD if you’re under 30. Plan on staying engrossed in this fantastic masterpiece of a plot. Good to the last frame, you’ll feel good about love again. I do wish I had viewed this film in 2004 when it was released, but I found it well worth the wait.