Whims of Writing

The twilight was illuminating in the distance while I faced west toward the water. It had a subtle glow with red streaks across the sky that slowly moved down into the horizon. I balanced myself on the large rock that stood in the center of a small pool of water. The tiny canals that circled the rock were dug earlier in the day by a group of kids. It was a beautiful night, one to remember. Today was also the first anniversary of my best friend passing from this life to the next. I was here at the beach remembering her life and our life as best friends forever (BFF). We were two inseparable twins from different parents who thought we would both grow old together while celebrating all the marriage milestones to our future spouses, children, birthday parties, and everything in between. I was here to celebrate her and toast to her memory. I sat down on the rock, reached into my shoulder bag, and pulled out a large bottle of red wine. It was her favorite. We would come to this beach a l

Photo credit: Carol Eliassen It was a sunny day as usual in Pismo Beach, California, when I decided to go swimming after walking the long white sandy beach. The waves were coming in slowly, along with a light breeze. I had picked a perfect day to hang out at the beach, take in the sights and fresh saltwater ocean air. While walking along the shoreline, I literally stumbled upon Emma. She was a local college student from San Francisco and was just on a day trip to the beach. She had driven down with friends, but they had insisted on shopping, and all she wanted to do was enjoy being lazy on the beach as she worked on her tan. I had just dined at a local bar and grill across the street that had a great view of the water. The shrimp, cod, and crab were the best I had ever eaten, but the drinks made me a little wobbly while trying to navigate the deep white sand. When I stumbled upon Emma, which I did, we hit it off after I kept apologizing profusely. I wasn’t known for college life. I was

  Chocolate Death Cake George…just George. What a George he was. He never knew a cake he didn’t like or cookie, for that matter. I knew George well. He was quite a tall, lanky, handsome fellow who loved to bake. Growing up and looking at him, I always thought that he would be a perfect mortician because he looked like Mr. Fletcher, the local one in town. Thin and bony he was too. Aren’t all morticians tall and spindly? Well, I thought they were. I shouldn’t have stereotyped him at all because he became a Baker! Well, I won’t tell you how I envisioned all Bakers. That will be my little secret. Again, I was wrong, thanks to George. Let’s get back to George the Baker. He was a friend of the family, and most called him Uncle George, except for me. I knew he wasn’t my uncle, and since we were so close in age, I never called him that. Everyone thought that was odd, but I just liked calling him by his name. I loved that name and even named my firstborn son George. It was not because George wa