Category: Nonfiction Stories

I once read there are over 75,000 alleged sightings of Bigfoot. That begs the question: could all these people be liars? That begs the question: could all these people be mistaken? If you look deeply enough into this Bigfoot fascination, you will find some scientists and many people with impressive credentials who believe Bigfoot exists.

I’ve always though all the Bigfoot talk was nonsense, pranks and foolishness that only fools would believe. But after listening to various accounts by credible people, I’m open to the idea that Bigfoot may be real. He may be real, in my opinion and that of others, if Bigfoot is interdimensional, which would explain why after all the alleged sightings no definitive proof exists since, according to many sightings, he can appear and disappear at will, suggesting he may live one or more dimensions.

Another theory is he’s like a puppet that aliens drop on this earth for unknown scientific purposes and bring him back up to UFOs to examine what he discovered inside his receptor brain.

Maybe Bigfoot isn’t real. Maybe none of the theories are true, but these Bigfoot speculations fascinate me just the same.

Bob Boyd

After spiritual energy awakened in me from the base of my spine to the crown of my head, I could feel the spiritual energy emanating out of highly evolved or enlightened beings in their photos, their videos, their written and spoken words.

This wasn’t a psychic power. I couldn’t do anything with it except perceive the energy like a receiver.

Once I was reading a book by a powerful spiritual master who was a Sanskrit scholar and an MD and whose path primarily consisted of a practice called Nada Yoga where you would meditate on the sounds in your head seeking enlightenment via the sound currents.

I was feeling his potent energy emanating out of the book, and all of a sudden a ringing in my ears accompanied the flow of energy, like an unexpected initiation into the spiritual master’s path.

I found the ringing disturbing, and it was unrelenting. I contacted the spiritual master for help with it.

He told me to come see him in upstate New York. I arrived at his ashram a day later and felt the pervasive abundance of spiritual energy that flowed from his powerful presence.

This spiritual energy was so powerful and pervasive that practically anyone would feel it, as is the case with enlightened spiritual masters or highly evolved adepts. They are like powerhouses of radiant, spiritual energy.

The spiritual master initiated me with a fire ceremony. I was amazed at how high staring at the fire made me. I’d read of yogis meditating on candles, but I never thought staring at fire could have such a potent effect.

After the fire ceremony, the spiritual master pulled a small stick out of his robe and tapped me on the head with it. And WOW! my consciousness was amped up a hundredth fold and I was spiritually higher than ever in my life.

The supercharged state was the result of a shaktipat where a guru by the touch of his hand transmits some of his energy reservoir into your consciousness like a small tuning fork being supercharged by a bigger tuning fork’s more powerful vibration.

I remained in the elevated state of consciousness on my drive home and throughout the night. It lasted for about eight hours.

The next day the ringing was gone.

Bob Boyd

Miranda had been getting lonely despite having a great job and many friends because she lacked a romantic partner. She explored Tinder seeking a girlfriend. She met a woman her age named Aubrey who seemed like an ideal match for her.

They met in person, enjoyed each other’s company, and arranged a date. On their first date, Miranda began having feelings for Aubrey, and they made a second date after which Miranda mysteriously vanished.

Aubrey had taken Miranda to her apartment that she shared with an evil man who identified as a vampire and was the leader of a small cult of three women he controlled, ravished, and called witches. But when the three women learned he was going to find a woman to kill for the sheer pleasure of it, shocked, they ran away from him. They didn’t want to be a part of something that evil and knew he meant what he said.

Tragically, Miranda became that woman. Aubrey and her boyfriend battered her and strangled her to death. They hacked her body into pieces and stuffed her body parts in garbage bags they dumped in a remote location.

Partly by luck, mostly by good detective work, the police caught the two killers a few weeks into their investigation. One is on death row. The other is in prison for life. And it’s a goddamn shame Miranda got murdered simply because she was looking for someone to love and be loved by. And it’s a goddamn shame we live in a world where many women are murdered and so much evil flourishes.

Bob Boyd

Sixteen each, we met at the YMCA dance and I trembled when I got the courage to ask you for a dance. I remember the band played Sixteen Candles. You honest to God felt like an angel in my arms, your beautiful blonde hair heavenly, your sky blue eyes, divine. I think I fell in love with you the moment you were In my arms; it all felt so natural, so true, so incredibly real, like nothing I’d ever experienced.

It was so many years, so many summers ago, I can’t remember who said I love you first. I only remember I meant it forever. I remember I loved you so much I would have died for you without hesitation, without reservation.

And oh my God those kisses on the banks of the pond, the pond waters caressing the shore, my head in you lap looking up at your sunlit angelic face, captivated by your smile and how beautiful you looked, how intoxicatingly sweet your perfume was when I inhaled it with my every breath, and the soft summer green grass like a love nest enveloping us in romantic bliss and how when summer was over it was so hard, so painful to be apart from you, sweet you.

I remembered how we planned to get married when we graduated from high school, and how your heart was so true. And how even though you lived faraway in New Jersey and I lived in Massachusetts you spent your summers in Woburn the city I lived In, and how I went to your prom in Montclair, New Jersey before the summer love faded into a dark frozen winter when all the summer flowers and our love wilted and died. And how I cried and cried and cried.

And you broke what I thought was our forever vow when you cheated on me with some guy going to Rutgers U., and I remember how I never knew I had a heart that could be shattered into a million pieces that would take years to put back together, misspent years of dissipation and dissolution
not caring if I lived or died, such was the agony of the fairy tale evermore love lost.

It was even more painful because I stayed true to you beyond the distance, beyond the seasons, and I would have stayed true to you eternally. Even now decades hence and me like a monk in the world, sometimes I still think of what might have been, what could have been.

But alas we’re not sixteen anymore and Sixteen Candles was so long ago, and you might be dead and I almost was, and if we were to meet again, maybe I’d wake up and see it was only like a dream, and that teenage summer love was never meant to be, and I’d dry my older, wiser eyes.

Bob Boyd

I was six or seven years old and taking swimming lessons at a community pool and when I was out of the pool standing in front of the swings, I felt a soft tap on my back. I turned around and saw a cute, red-haired girl my age smiling at me.

I was too young for boy girl romantic feelings and the power of flirtations back then, but something in me besides my back was touched. I think it was a budding romantic heart. Before any words were spoken, the red-haired girl’s mother took her hand and walked away with her while she was looking back at me smiling.

I never saw that red-haired girl again, but, curiously, I think about her now and then even as an old man. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d met her again when she and I were old enough to fall in love, and I feel that would have happened.

I wonder how her life turned out. Did she have a full and happy life? Is she still alive? What was her name? But, alas, I’ll never find out any of those things. Sometimes in overly imaginative moments, I’ve wondered if I’ll see her again in the afterlife.

Maybe she’ll be there as a beautiful, red-haired woman and tap me softly on my back, and I’ll turn around and fall in love with her. And for reasons unclear to me, I got a little teary-eyed writing this story.

Bob Boyd

In Springfield Vermont, stands the Hartness House Inn an elegant, looming gables mansion built in 1904.

Once the home of James Hartness, an inventor extraordinaire a governor of Vermont, an aviator, an industrialist and more in want of a quieter environment, he a built a network of tunnels under his mansion, a subterranean sanctuary with a library, a workshop, a study and an apartment.

Twenty years after Hartness died in 1934, the mansion was converted into an inn, and the ghost of Hartness is believed to be haunting it: strange sensations, lights flickering, rocking chairs rocking by themselves, objects fly off shelves, sounds of someone murmuring.

But smart as Hartness was, if he is haunting the mansion, why couldn’t he find his way to the Light?
Or is he locked into doing what he still thinks is his material world work in his subterranean, tunneled haunts?

Bob Boyd