Posts

The Man at the Post Box

-
Image
I moved into the canyon a couple of years ago. A recent transplant from darkest Europe, I liked the unbridled and remote vibe it possessed. And only a stone's throw from the hustle of 21st century Los Angeles. Not easy to find in this day and age. So when of the cute old cabins came up for rent down by the creek, I nabbed it as quickly as possible.  One afternoon not long after moving in, I sat on my front porch smoking a cigarette when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. It was a man standing by the post box. He wore a black hat, like a cowboy hat, with long, messy gray hair, as he stared fixedly at the neighborhood's house across the street. When I peered closer, he wasn't there. I shook my head, telling myself it was only my imagination. I was overly tired. It had been nothing more than a shadow from the old oak tree. The mind is a monkey , I told myself, stubbing out my cigarette, thinking no more of it . A couple of weeks later I received a pre
1 comment
Read more

The Lady in Red

-
Image
This story was told to me by a neighbor's eldest son. He's an odd boy. Moved away a couple of summers ago and I haven't seen him since. There's a remote park nestled up in the hills not far from where I grew up at. It's not very big. Not much larger than a football field. It's full of ancient oak trees who heavy branches blot out the sunlight. In the mornings you might catch sight of a deer, or one of the neighbors walking their dogs, but for the most part it's basically forgotten by the world. No one goes in that park after dark. Most people don't have any reason to do so. There's only a dimly lit streetlight and the rest is dark. Like dark, dark. Rattlesnakes nest under the dead leaves and coyotes pass through like phantoms. Of course, this makes it the perfect place for partying with your friends, away from parental eyes when you're a teenager.  For most of the summer a few of my buddies and I bundled together in a car on Saturday nights, driv
Post a Comment
Read more

Leaving La Llorona

-
Image
Darkness comes early to our sleepy neck of the woods. Sunshine dapples through ancient oak trees as squirrels give chase through the myriad of branches. Peacocks strut and preen, their honking cries indicating the liminal times of the day, namely sunrise and sunset. The creek behind our house, run-off from the unattended graveyards a little further on up the hill, provides a steady stream of white noise. It's an oasis from the bustle of the 21st century. A place where the neighbors always say hello and you know every car that travels down the hidden streets. We look out for each other in the canyon. It's always been the way here. Even from when the first cabin was built. Of course back then it was a hideout for bandits and bootleggers, until it became a weekend vacation spot for the then newly glittering Hollywood crowd. There's a vibe to this canyon. A feeling that is hard to shake. Most likely because it's old. The hills are old. The trees are old. The roots run deep.
Post a Comment
Read more