..."Do you have any regrets in life?" I asked as I leaned against the wheel.
Others had asked that, too, during the several pre-death wakes we held for Lefty--one in Germany, to say goodbye to his old Berliner friends, one in Berkeley for his antiwar buddies, and one in Denver for the locals by the college.
"No kids? Not marrying anyone? Anything you'd do over if you had the chance? Any last words to the world?"
"Yeah," Lefty answered. "Don't forget to ask Life and Time what they think of their war hero now." He spoke so quietly that I had to lean close to hear, then felt quite guilty for asking so nonchalant a question when I would still be around long after Lefty had left. ... "I suppose I missed playing that guitar," he remarked after several minutes. "I should have learned to play with the stub. That would have been a first."
"Or the hook."
We laughed.
The warning clouds began to merge, moving from the Mummy Range toward The Roof. I wondered, as I had for the last several days, what was I to do with the body? I guessed that I could hike back down and tell the chairlift guy. He looked responsible. He'd know what to do. I'd tell him my friend had been struck by lightning, and I wasn't sure about moving him from the strike spot....

...What was really sad, I had thought since Lefty's Berkeley wake, held at the Blue Moon tavern on Telegraph Avenue, was to dream of running, and wake up with legs that didn't work. Or, to dream of playing the guitar, and wake up to one hand. It would be like being in love and wake up alone. (Matter: a journal of literature, art & movement 07: Patterns 2005).

Admittedly, the red pony looked a bit garish against the blandness of the park and the surrounding homes. As the five couples meandered from the park that evening, they each turned around and walked backwards. The red pony seemed to grow taller and taller until it became a huge red horse-like creature looming over the sameness around them.
"Scary," Dirk said. He would know, having built a one-room survivalist cabin outside Steamboat Springs for the millennium.
"The thing I don't understand," Jeffrey said. "Where the hell did they come up with a red pony? They say its for the kids to enjoy in the park, but really, if I remember right, The Red Pony is not a particularly uplifting story. Carl Tiflin is schizophrenic. Billy Buck is an ignorant and antagonistic man. Jody is definitely undiagnosed ADD." Jeffrey was a middle school teacher.
The five couples wandered to Patrick and Karen's front lawn. The June night had turned warm, almost stifling, the air not moving. Trees provided no cool break. The red pony loomed over them. Patrick made margaritas. "You're assuming that this is Stenbeck's red pony," he said. "It's not. It's a Trojan horse, and inside that red horse live millions of little green people with blackthorn clubs who, once loose, will hurry and scurry about the park and beat all of us on the shins and the ankles with their blackthorn clubs..." (Blue Earth Review vol. 5, Spring 2007).

If you took Grandpa, held him upside down and shook him, that's what you'd have--an old man, arms folded, shaken upside down. He wouldn't try to straighten himself. He wouldn't yell or scream. He wouldn't kick or box his way right side up. He'd just stay upside down until you let him go.
He wasn't always like that. Before Grandma died, if you held Grandpa upside down and shook him, life would have fallen out of his inverted pockets, laughter and quiet smirks from his smiling face, a hat full of surprises would have plummeted from his head.
Not his oldest daughter, Hannah. If you took Hannah, held her upside down, so much stuff would drop out you'd have to sweep the residue. Armor that matched Brunhilde would clank to the floor. Easy irritation would fall out of her. Impatience, chronic disapproval, self-absorption would tumble from her loose arms.
If you took the rest of the family ... well, the rest of the family was of no concern that June day Hannah discovered Grandpa's little habit. (Dry Spell: Tales of Thirst and Longing: A Selection of Short Stories from Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, 2004)

...At the top of the third mountain, the lift suddenly stopped. Harley's white knuckles were glued to the safety bar. They peeled Harley, Hans and Syd off the chair lift and scooted us all away. It was Steve's turn to wave us off. He grabbed his bike, mounted Jessica and Spencer on theirs and off they flew. Last I saw, they disappeared into the pines, rolling eyes and clicking tongues.
I stood alone with  my six charges--a white-faced Harley, a sick Syd; Hans lost his earring over the second mountain and was obsessing, Challenger wanted a beer, and Little Will wanted to follow Steve and the kids. Chuck Man Joe set up the bikes, instructed one to each, gave each a map and shoved them down the mountain. Hans and Challenger hid in the tall trees until Chuck Man Joe and I headed down the trail. Last I saw of those two, they were tiptoeing to the bar at the top of the mountain. Harley, Syd and Little Will--well, I heard their screams echo down the valley...(the Belletrist Review, 5th Anniversary Special Edition, Fall/Winter 1996-97)