Random Scribbles · writing

The Birth of an Empire


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham

The family had no idea that little Luigi would grow up to be a cook. No not a cook, a baker and confectioner. Luigi would wake early; bake a batch of sweet, sticky cinnamon rolls that his family would eat for breakfast. They would come home in the evening to a bounty of cakes, pies, brittles, chews, and the like.

They all doubled in size.

Determined to create the ultimate dessert and snack food, one day Luigi began experimenting with his grandmother’s sponge cake recipe, baking golden yellow finger cakes in cast iron molds. His sister wandered in for a snack and took one of the cakes. She stuck the end of a sweet cream filled icing bag into the cake and squeezed, filling it with cream before she popped it in her mouth.

“Mmmm,” she said and did it again.

Luigi watched her and finally snatched the sixth one she made and tasted it himself.

“Eureka,” he exclaimed, “I’ll call them Twinkies.”

Random Scribbles · writing

Windows to the Soul


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham

I see absolutely everything. Except for the things I miss. I sometimes miss the big things.

The beast was clearly dead, beached, rocking gently with the undulations of the sea. I approached for a closer look. Her countenance was passive, nonthreatening; in stark contrast to her still bared teeth that were menacing, razor sharp needles designed for sudden and horrible annihilation.

Her eyes, her eyes were as big as a man. I leaned in close, hoping to glimpse her spirit, to no avail. They were glazed and clouded, blinded by death.

As I searched there for a spark, she blinked.


Random Scribbles · writing

Wagon’s Ho!


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham

“Where did they go?”

“They moved on.”

“Who were they? What happened?”

“They were settlers heading west, lured by the promises of adventure, and abundant land. They were an armada of prairie schooners. Their wagon master was Skip Larson, you’ve heard of Colonel Larson; everyone has.

“Anyway, this was dangerous territory so when they stopped here for the night they circled the wagons and Larson told the pilgrims that they would move on when the wind died down.”

“Who built that then, if they headed out right away?”

“Reckon that they didn’t leave as quickly as that. You might have noticed it’s a bit windy ‘round here. Yeah, we figure that they were here for 15 years or more. As the canvas rotted on their wagons they built this big shelter and lived together in it till the wind died down.

“It might have been the first commune in Arizona.”


Random Scribbles · writing

You Can’t See Me – You Can’t See Me


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham

He thought he found the perfect hiding spot. Then ‘she’ came into the room.

He thought, “I’m good. She can’t see me.” He remained still, unmoving. He felt safe.

“Mr. Stitches?” she called into the room. “Are you in here Stitch?” She turned on the light and looked around the room.

“She won’t see me he thought. I’m in the perfect spot.”

“There you are, buddy,” she scuttled across the room bending down to scoop him up as she came.

There was no escape.

“Oh barf,” he thought. “Now she’s going to kiss me on the nose. I should’ve closed my eyes. She wouldn’t have been able to see me if I hadn’t been able to see her.”

She kissed him on the nose and snuggled on his neck, making kissy noises. Gross. He could feel the hairball – it was about to come up.

He hated it when she got all lovey-dovey.



Random Scribbles · writing

Teachings of the Ancients


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham

The petroglyphs told the story of an unusual event.
They told of a time long before we declared war on the white man,
the war that we lost.

The petroglyphs depict the arrival of the goat head men from the sky and show how they taught our ancestors the mysteries of the universe.
The goat head men spoke to us of spirals, and staircases; even spiral staircases;
they taught us how to hunt house cats with butter knives,
and they revealed the shape of Illinois.
Most importantly they taught us how to skewer a hot dog with a stick allowing even the simplest of us to cook over a campfire without burning our fingers.

Or perhaps, Grandson, perhaps – the petroglyphs depict none of this.
Perhaps they simply offer a glimpse into the mind of a sleepy sentry.
A guard, standing watch on a warm summer night,
writing poems with pictures,
trying to stay awake.


Random Scribbles · writing

I’ll Fly Away


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham

Delphine always wanted to pilot her father’s plane and when he forgot his keys on her tenth birthday, she knew that taking off would be easy.
She thought landing, would be too.
She snagged his keys off the dresser,
laced up her walking shoes.

It was quite a trek to the airport, the one where Daddy flew. Two hours were spent walking there, and her anticipation grew.
She was excited, hot, and sweaty when she settled in the seat
She shut the door, and belted in
Then looked down at her feet.

Reluctantly, she climbed back out
She locked the plane back down
Sighed and shrugged her shoulders,
Started walking back to town.

She hadn’t thought it through, she admitted to herself –
she couldn’t reach the pedals, she kicked herself and then.
Remembered, after all, that she had only just turned ten.
She’d come back when she was taller
And she’d try it once again.

Random Scribbles · writing

No Fru Fru Coffee


Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham


“The barista shook his head. That hedge couldn’t have moved closer overnight. Could it?”

“Nah,” Aaron dismissed the idea as ridiculous when the morning rush began. He was all asses and elbows for the next two hours when Helen, his manager, reminded him that he had to take a break. He made himself an iced coffee and went outside to sit in the grass and have a smoke.

He was sure now. The hedge had made it across the street. It was definitely closer.

Aaron took a few hesitant steps closer to the hedge.

The hedge took a few closer to him.

“Do I need to worry about you?” Aaron spoke to the hedge and earned himself a few sideways glances from passersby.

The largest of the topiary figures seemed to shake his head.

Aaron waited for more but nothing moved. Finally he asked, “Coffee? Black?”

The large one nodded.

Aaron raised his eyebrows, “cup apiece?”

Another nod.

“These’ll be on the house dudes!”


Random Scribbles · writing

Mayor Swenson’s Got a Good Thing Going

Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham


The Mayor and the town manager waved as their next victim approached. She was an elderly woman; clearly with means, judging by the expensive car she drove and the jewels that were dripping off her fingers.

“How can we help you ma’am?” Mayor Spike Swenson asked.

“I received a ticket on the highway and I think I need to pay a fine,”

“Let’s take a look.” Bubba, the manager, said as he perused the citation. “My, oh my – this is serious.” He handed the chit to Spike.

“Oh no,” Spike said, feigning concern, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold you for a few days ma’am. Till the circuit judge gets here. I wouldn’t worry too much though. You can hire Bubba, he’s a lawyer. He’ll prob’ly get you off.”

Bubba grinned, “Come on in ma’am we’ll get you in that cell. All your personal property will be held at the desk. ‘Course, we’re gonna have to impound those fancy wheels.”


Random Scribbles · writing

Of Course, There’s no Science to Support This

Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham


At first, it looked like an ordinary marble, but it was far from it.

It contained the known universe and initially lay near the ice cap of a much larger planet;
in a much larger universe than our own – with countless others just like it.

When the glaciers had melted there, all of the marble sized universes dispersed,
spreading across the face of the larger planet.

Some had descended to the bottom of the seas where they were crushed by tremendous pressures.
Ensuing floods extinguished their stars. All life contained therein had perished.

Some found their way to the desert floors where a fiery end awaited.

Still others were crushed by or eaten by creatures that had survived the glacial upheaval.


Ours found its way to fertile soil and waits,
waits to see what happens with the marble that is the much larger universe, lying somewhere on the surface of a still larger planet.


Random Scribbles · writing


Photo Courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham
Photo Courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham


Zeus was not having a good day and he made sure everyone knew it. He had snuck to the garage to get his clubs and found, instead, a note penned in Hera’s hand.


“I have your golf clubs locked away. They’ll ne’er again see the light of day – ‘til you finish the things you promised. The car still needs washing, and so does the dog. The toilet still has a nasty clog. The weeds are taking over the lawn. The checking account is overdrawn. Oh, and I have the TV remote as well!”


He tossed lightning bolts about, setting the lawn afire, burning the weeds. He conjured up a fierce storm, sending mortals to seek shelter, rinsing the car and dog.

“Damn her,” he muttered under his breath. He worked himself into a proper tizzy and screamed, to no one in particular. “The checking account will have to wait! It’s Sunday morning.”

He checked the note again, then moped off to find a plunger.