DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> Story - Lo-Fi Tribe

Six Miles Out

There once lived a man - a young man - who stumbled upon a familiar crowd of people sharing drink and food.

“Hey there!” The young man shouted. “What are you all doing gathered here like this? Is there nothing better for you to do today than gather together yet again in this tired, old courtyard? It is a beautiful day and the sun …” Read More »

A Fistful of Flowers

The audible brush of his wheel chair’s rubber coated steal wheels gliding across the mahogany-stained, crack-gapped, hard wood floors was customarily accompanied by a broad sense of gloom that naggingly pricked at the remaining four senses of coherent individuals within an earshot of the notorious sound. Read More »

Stephen Crane’s The Open Boat and Cosmic Irony

Stephen Crane’s The Open Boat is the story of four ship-wrecked men struggling for survival against forces well beyond their control. Their ship sunk, the cook, the correspondent, the oiler and the captain are forced to float their lifeboat close enough to land to see it, but far enough away to escape the sharp, rough, crushing and ice-cold waves and surf guarding it. It is an awful and cosmically-ironic situation. The four men, sea-weary from the traumatic ordeal experienced thus far, are forced to endure their own awareness of the potential lose-lose situation they now find themselves in, unfortunately. They are forced to float in the deep but gentle waters of the sea to sustain their own slow death, while all the while holding in full view their ultimate but seemingly unreachable goal for survival - dry land. Should they attempt to make it to land, their lifeboat would surely be destroyed and they would be ferociously tossed into the water. There they might suffer hypothermia, death by drowning or both! None of the men have the strength required to make a swim of such great distance. So, the cook, correspondent, oiler and captain spend two long, sleepless, cold and helpless nights thinking about it in the lifeboat. Read More »

A Letter to a Son

Son - This letter will always be here for you to find it, wherever you may be. It will be accessible from any place in this not-so-small world of ours. I am pretty confident that when you are older Internet accessibility will not even be an issue. So, you’ll probably be able to find this letter. Pull it up and read it whenever you feel the need. Read More »

A Cell Phone Epiphany

Six weeks had passed since the death of Stacy’s younger brother. He was only twenty-five. A twenty-five year old victim of his own false sense of youthful immortality. Normally, no one seriously thinks about dying before they are forty-five years old, at least. The thought may appear on their cognitive radar every now and then, but the blip is a fleeting one. Read More »

A New Year’s Day Breakfast Story

My son just shared a New Year’s Day story with me over a stack of homemade apple pancakes and a bunch of sunny-side eggs. His tale began when I asked him a very simple and very fitting New Year’s Day question. Read More »

Kilroy and the Angry Swag

It shouldn’t have taken so long. The job required ten minutes of his time, tops. Yet, Kilroy was still there, barely balancing atop his rickety, make-shift ladder which was built out of a not-so-clever vertical combination of his cat’s tan-carpet-covered scratching post and a green, plastic clothes hamper. He knew better than to perilously perch himself atop stacked unstackables; but he really needed to hang his swag and lacked proper props. So, there he was, stretched beyond limits in a perpetual state of momentary flux. He was, on the one hand, stretching madly to tract and tack two handfuls of sun-stopping swag raised as far above his head as they possibly could be; on the other hand, he was fighting to stabilize the poorly designed skyscraper upon which his fickle feet were fluctuating. Now Kilroy hung, frozen, numb, and quite suspended in time. Read More »

The Misexamined Life

The five a.m. hacking was more dependable than her alarm clock. Every morning she was shaken out of her already restless sleep by the tortured grunt and bark of her nicotine and tar stained lungs. Between hacks and gasps she’d stretch toward her bed-side table and take hold of her pack of Marlboros. She’d normally light a stick before her feet hit the bedroom floor. Somehow, the hair of her choice dog always took the edge off of her early morning gagging. Read More »

Salpinctes the Rock Wren

Salpinctes lived in a small but cozy niche in the rocks on the side of a huge vertical slab of earth simply known to the humans dwelling nearby as “Stone Bluff.” It was nothing spectacular, just another of Green Canyon’s cliffs of rock; but it was her’s and it was home. Most importantly of all, it was safe. Her little stone crevice about half-way up the side of Stone Bluff was not only well beyond the reach of any potential predators, but it was also flood proof. The rainy season was quickly approaching, and the canyon filled up with water every year. Salpinctes’ avoided both dangers from the comfortable little cup nest she attended to with painstaking detail and devotion. She flew for miles and miles in search of just the right materials for her little cup nest in the rocks of Stone Bluff. Any twig would not do; a random blade of grass would not fit just so. Salpinctes was a Rock Wren, and she was too proud to rest in a nest of even semi-questionable quality. No, for Salpinctes, only the very best materials would do. Read More »