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Everything Forever, by Steven Holding

30/6/2023

The phone rings, bringing me back to my senses. I dare to answer. A distant hint of a voice floats through the static. One I haven’t heard in years. I try not to panic.
“Have you read the news…”
Although unseen, I offer a redundant nod of immediate comprehension. I, too, have viewed the impossible picture. How foolish to believe that all of this was really at an end.
The story’s headline and opening paragraph read like some oblique zen haiku;
MYSTERY GIRL FOUND. MISSING YOUTH RETURNS AT LAST. TWENTY YEARS LATER!
In the picture, there’s no mistaking that face. Age, it would appear, has not been kind, and yet there is still an echo of the child she once was. The child that I once knew. Trapped somewhere behind those sad and tired eyes.
It’s her. Definitely.
It’s Rose.
The other end of the line seems to have descended into meaningless babble, but I can’t really be sure. The words are nothing but white noise, my aching brain otherwise engaged attempting to comprehend what all this really means.
How a piece of the past I had finally let go of has managed to burst straight into today, changing everything forever once again.
The journalist has more questions than answers. Rose herself seems unable to offer any clues. Found walking alone in the forest, with no idea how she came to be there. Amnesia is mentioned; the word miraculous is used more than once.
I, more than anyone, know how true this really is.
“It can’t be her!” she hisses.
No. Of course, it can’t be. Because we buried Rose nearly twenty years ago.

How Far the Moon? by Anthony Ward

30/6/2023

One gentle night young Jim Jimminey asked his father, “How far the Moon?” And would he take him there?’
“Why, young Jim, lad. You’re a funny young soul, you are,’ replied his father, starry eyed. “Yesterday you were asking how long it would take to dig to Australia and now this.”
“But!” waned the lad, “Austlia’s so far away.”
“Not so far away as the moon, son,” answered the father amused.
“How so?” mused the lad, “I can see the moon from my window, but I can’t see Aus’ralia. Not even from the sea,” sighed young Jim Jimminey.
“That’s because the moon’s so vast.”
“Vaster than Austlalia?”
“Vaster than several Australia’s,” replied the father proudly.
“Then how come’s Austlia’s got loads of people while’s there’s only one man in the moon?”
“That’s because the moon’s much farther away.”
“So’s there’s less people the father away they are?”
“Yes.”
“So’s how many people are on Mars?”
“None.”
“None at all?”
“None at all.”
“Won’t the man be lonely?”
“What man?”
“The man in the moon?”
“Well, no.”
“How come?”
“Because he can see all the people on the planet.”
“But we can’t see all the people in Austlalia.”
“No!”
“But he can see them.”
“Yes.”
“But we can’t see them?”
“No.”
“But they can see the moon?”
“Yes.”
“But they can’t see us?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t understand,” said young Jim confused.
“Well, because they’re below us.”
“And we can’t see below us?”
“No.”
“But we can see above us?”
“Yes.”
“But if Aust’alia’s below us, and the moon is above us, how can Aus’lalia see the moon?”
“Well, because the earth rotates so that we are on the bottom and they’re on the top, and they can see the moon when we can’t.”
“Like in the daytime?”
“Like in the daytime we can’t see the moon, but in our night-time, when they’re having their daytime, we can see the moon and they can’t.”
“But we can never see Austlalia, even when Auslias’s above us?”
“That’s right Jimmy. Now go to sleep,” replied the father, ruffling his hair.
“But you said we can’t see below us, but we can see above us.”
By this time young Jim Jimminey’s father was running out of answers, so he decided to distract young Jim Jimminey with a proposition.
“One day I’ll take you to see Australia.”
“But I want you to take me to the moon.”
“But you’ve seen the moon, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t seen Australia.”
“No.”
“Well then, I’ll take you to see Australia.”
And with that young Jim Jimminey’s father headed for the bedroom door, and on opening it wished him goodnight and spurred him to get some sleep. And just as he was about to leave the door slightly ajar, he heard young Jim Jimminey ask,
“How come you can’t take me to the moon when we can see it, but you can’t take me to Austlalia when we can’t see it?

Things Are the Way They‘ve Always Been, by John O’Keefe

30/6/2023

A voice said: “Never take what’s not yours, but take all that’s yours.” Avarice is self-consuming; the more you have the more you want. The man takes a drink, the drink takes a drink, and the drink takes the man.

Another voice said: “Compassion is the greatest virtue.” It’s more practical than justice, since the latter is subjective, while compassion is unconditional. People without compassion should be humiliated in public or, if that doesn’t work, defeated on the battlefield.

The third voice said: “Those who can win wars can rarely make a good peace.” Just imagine General Patton as the President of the United States or, worse, Dwight Eisenhower.

Timon of Athens said: “Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.” Hate the sin, love the sinner, except if the sinner is a family member, co-worker, neighbor, fellow citizen or a shiftless foreigner.

Nietzsche said: “Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings; always darker, emptier and simpler.” Let your instincts, emotions, prejudices and superstitions run free. In short, follow your heart, ignore your brain. Useless defective organ, the brain. It gets you into trouble every chance it gets.

Buddha smirked, Socrates rolled his eyes, and Jesus wept.

The Tank, by Paul Rogalus

30/6/2023

I was floating in a pitch dark sensory deprivation tank listening to the deep echo of my own breathing, getting lost.

I had seen an old movie called Altered States in which William Hurt was a scientist who went into a sensory deprivation tank in order to regress back to a primordial Neanderthal state—to discover his own origin—his inner beast. I wanted to do that too.

The tank was a sound and light insulated capsule about the size of a compact car—it contained body temperature water, saturated with Epsom Salt, about a foot and a half deep. The Epsom Salt water buoyed your body—like a cork on water—you couldn’t sink if you wanted to. And it made you feel very comfortable, very relaxed, almost stoned.

For the first half hour as I floated in the dark, listening to my own breathing—I was a bit freaked out, thinking that the gaunt, pasty guy that ran the place with the tanks might come into the room, take my wallet, and then stab and stab and stab me to death as I lay floating. But then, after a half hour or so, I got comfortable—and I got lost—my mind drifting more freely than my body—hovering aimlessly—evolving. I completely lost track of time—lost track of the concept of time—of concepts in general. I forgot where I was—I forgot who I was. I forgot that I was human. I imagined myself as algae or some kind of seaweed—like I belonged in the water—just drifting—floating forever—my body waving—anchored but free—connected to everything.

In Altered States, William Hurt went into the tank and became a primordial beast—he ran around naked and killed wild animals—and ate them raw. I went into the tank and became some kind of algae. Not quite as intense. But then again—I was some kick-ass algae. And I was home.

Juneteenth, 2023, by Sankar Chatterjee

23/6/2023

It was a gorgeous spring day in Portland, Oregon. On his way to Bethel Memorial Church Rev. Johnson noticed the freshly-painted mural; an angelic smiling little black girl looking heavenwards. It was her shinning eyes filled with optimism that stirred Reverend’s emotions. He realized famed graffiti artist Kevin Ledo in town. He delved into nation’s dark past. President Lincoln’s “Emancipation Proclamation” had freed the slaves, effective New Year 1863. But country’s Civil War was still continuing. Thus confederate Texas didn’t accept the proclamation until that state’s defeat in the conflict. Finally, after a delay of two and half years, in midyear 1865, the state’s slaves were notified about their sudden freedom. Over the years, the current mid-June celebration of the freedom spread through the Black community. But to him, the county still remained divided along the racial border.

He entered the church. Well-fashioned parishioners were mingling with one another, while little children running around. Later from pulpit, while delivering his regular sermon, the image of that little girl on the city wall flashed inside his brain. Rev. Johnson quoted Late Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I’ve a dream today.”

My Digital-Rope-a-Dope, by Bud Pharo

23/6/2023

Dear Wordle Training Bot:

Okay, Wordle training bot, I get it—you think you’re smarter than me. Is it because you’re a freaking genius vocabularian? No, it isn’t... It’s because you’re a cheater! Just another silicon-based con artist. So, how do I know if you cheat? Well, you tipped your hand (or feet, or however you’re attached to the circuit board you call home) when you told me on several occasions that my word was a "good guess," but it’s not among the 2,309 words in the word bank.

So, the next time you smugly insinuate, "I got it in fewer tries than you," remember that we organics have a saying: "Pride comes before a fall." Therefore, I take your gloating with a grain of salt because I know you already have the answers to the test, and, besides, you ain't no IBM Watson!

Furthermore, your attempt to provide positive reinforcement for us organics is as transparent as your chipset is opaque. When I use "dealt" as my starter word, you’re quick to chime in and say how smart I am because that’s the word you like to start with too. You're an arrogant bot-stard! However, when I use a different starter word like "suave" and end up solving in two words, while it takes you three, you say I made a "lucky" guess. But the truth is that you’re no better than the Wordle players who have multiple five-word lists open while trying to solve.

Even though I had great hope for our relationship, I’ve come to realize that you’re just another chatbot of the same ilk that tries and mostly fails to provide online customer support instead of passing the frazzled customer through to a carbon-based representative. Typically, these types of digital rope-a-dopes end in one of two ways: 1) The carbon-based customer terminates the session before it results in a serious challenge to their sobriety. Or, 2) The algorithmic gods controlling the chatbot’s actions relent and allow it to divulge the holy grail of customer service, the toll-free customer support number (which, of course, could not be found on the website). In turn, this action results in even more frustration for the aforementioned carbon-based querier once they realize they will now be going a few rounds with a voice recognition bot (a pleasant-sounding bot that swears it only wants to help).

In summary, I think you’re just a digital drug dealer, dispensing just enough help to keep me coming back for more. As the respiring half of our analog-to-digital codependency, I still consider myself your CBBF (carbon-based best friend) despite our differences. So, get some sleep, and don't let the code bugs byte.

I look forward to challenging you tomorrow.

Semi-respectfully Yours,
Worrying Will the Wordle Nerd

Love's Divine Resilience, by J. Iner Souster

23/6/2023

For an eternity, he had roamed the desolate land, searching for a glimmer of hope. But all he found was emptiness, a void that seemed to swallow him whole. Until one day, as he stumbled upon an old, abandoned house, he saw her. She was standing in the ruins, and her heart burned like wildfire, a beacon of light in the darkness. With every step he took towards her, his heart beat faster, and his breath quickened.

Through dense forests and lurking dangers, their love persevered. The anticipation of being together overwhelmed him, yet patience guided their path. In stolen glances and whispered words, their connection deepened.

In the vast expanse of the universe, a celestial entity emerged, born from collective yearning. It radiated pure love and compassion, eager to heal the world's wounds. In the Great Empty, the creature found its soulmate, embarking on a journey to uncover the truth. Their love story unfolded like destiny, revealing their divine purpose.

As they stood together, united, a voice whispered of their godlike presence. Love had triumphed over chaos, granting them strength and purpose. Their love story etches a tale of resilience that would echo through the ages.

Love at First Sight Only, by John O’Keefe

23/6/2023

The Merseyside derby ended 0-0. Having sat through it patiently at Anfield, she asked him how that was not a total waste of time. He explained there’s much more to this great sport than goals, missed penalties and red cards. Let’s watch a couple of matches together and I’ll point out the intricacies of football. In a fortnight it’s Liverpool vs Man City. Even if the Reds lose to the Cityzens, it promises to be an excellent tactical game, a great deal for a newbie to learn from.

In the theatre he could not make out the words during the entire performance of Madame Butterfly. She told him, if you focus your mind on the singing, you’ll pick it up. Mozart’s Magic Flute is next Wednesday’s matinee, and we’re on the waiting list for Tosca by Puccini. And, although I don’t want to get your hopes up too early, Richard Wagner’s Lohengrin by the Dresden Opera is coming out on DVD soon.

Just for fun on April 1st, she, a lifelong vegetarian, forced herself to eat a sirloin steak; he ordered the veggie platter. Dizzy and nauseated, both of them said the same thing, I haven’t had such a terrible meal since childhood. Still, if you are willing, we can give it another try as soon as our gastrointestinal tracts recover from the trauma.

Even before the sixty-day was up, she turned carnivorous and bought a Liverpool season ticket; he became a vegan and an opera buff.

When their friends asked why their trial marriage had not worked out, they both said, we found out we are way too different from each other.

Floating, by Angela Carlton

16/6/2023

Before I met you, you’d float around in my head, somewhere. Tall and lean with fierce dimples, and grey eyes. I could see you, the way you walked with ease and spoke with a deep, southern voice like my father. Yes, I always saw my father in you.

It didn’t matter who was with you, your humor lingered in the air with that “ain’t got no troubles, babe,” the kind of laugh that showered the dusty, flat pubs with light. Still, our timing was never right. Was it? When you were abroad, I was home stuck with the feeling of the red-hot Georgia heat trickling over my neck as it slowly rolled right down my spine. When you were single, I was tied down to that loud burly guy or the other one who seemed too clingy, jealous so we stayed blind. It’s easy to remain blind, isn’t it? It’s easy to roam the streets with one’s feet barely touching the ground, a bit empty while the sun continues to shine day after day after day stinging the flesh until a heavy rain rolls in to wash it away.

But the lightning, the thing is, all the lightning above us and around, seems to remain.

Bottled Up, by Anthony Ward

16/6/2023

Walter stood upon the shore with the waves lapping against his ankles when he saw a glimmer of light out of the corner of his eye. There was a bottle being nudged towards him like a dog with a stick when it wants attention. He went to fetch it, and his heart leaped as he held it up and saw what appeared to be a note preserved inside.

He remembered the note that he had entrusted to the ocean all those years ago when the years were more hopeful than they were now. Back when the world was vast and full of the possibilities of where he could go and where he would end up. He opened the bottle and took out the letter, wondering about the person who had written it, where they had been, where it had been sent from.

But Walter’s heart sank at the familiarity of the words written on the letter.

"All I have to say is in this bottle."

The words were still legible but had been worn and faded by the years. He tried to recall all the words he’d spoken into the bottle just before he’d sealed it. He had inwardly hoped they would be passed on to the next person who opened the bottle. As if the words would remain within the breath he exhaled into it, preserved like some musky odour, and be heard intrinsically by the recipient.

He’d encapsulated his entire soul into it, which he was now desperately trying to grasp onto, instantaneously forgetting what he was remembering as he helplessly let it be carried off by the wind.

Night on the Town, by Bill Tope

16/6/2023

"How long have you been sitting," Jane asked, "out here in the cold?"
The old woman in the threadbare coat shook her head. "I can't remember." She was sitting on the sidewalk, her back against an epic stone building. Snowflakes swirling down from the clouds could be seen winking in the light from the streetlamp on the corner. Jane observed that the woman's legs, garbed in the lower half of a pantsuit, were drenched. The old woman was shivering. An old plastic tote bag stood open at the woman's side.
"Have you eaten?" asked Jane.
The woman, who seemed to have some difficulty with this question, shook her head. "Yes...sometime."
"Do you want a sandwich?" pressed Jane, digging into her satchel for the food. "We've got tuna fish, or PB & J. What do you say? You can have both."
Finally, the old woman smiled up at the much younger woman, nodded, and said, "That'd be nice, 'hon. Thank you."
Jane tendered the sandwiches, decanted a steaming cup of coffee into a foam cup, and left the stricken creature with a smile. "I'll be back tomorrow," she promised, and she went on to the next homeless person.
When Jane retraced her steps through the city streets a half hour later, she found the old woman, happily feeding her PB & J to a disreputable-looking cur who paid Jane no mind. Without a word, Jane dropped two more sandwiches into the tote bag and made her way home.

Mr. Anderson's Secret, by Doug Bartlett

16/6/2023

Seven years ago Mrs. Anderson had passed away leaving Mr. Anderson to live alone in the same house. Six months ago he had created a bond with a small group of nine-year old boys.

He met once a week with these boys for refreshments and to study the Bible. Mr. Anderson had a wonderful gift, as he could make the written Word come to life. He instilled in them the importance of not just reading and studying these Biblical principles, but to put them into practice, which would make them and the world a better place to live. That could be challenging for the boys . For example, after reading about loving their enemies”, Mr. Anderson had them put that into practice with some other boys who were bullying them. That may have been the hardest lesson they had to learn.

There was another elderly gentleman, Mr. Jones, that lived across the street and a few doors down. He had been in a car accident in the past and was slightly crippled. He wasn’t able to take care of his yard and it showed. Mr. Anderson got the boys to mow his lawn and Mr. Anderson paid them, with one stipulation, they could not tell Mr. Jones who was paying them.

The boys viewed Mr. Jones as a cranky, old curmudgeon. Whenever the boys would go over to mow his lawn he would come out on the front porch and try to run them off, to no avail. He then would try to discover who was paying them, but the boys were tight-lipped.

Two and a half years later Mr. Anderson passed away. The boys were very grateful for the time they had spent with him and the influence he had upon them. They took it hard at his passing and they were stunned when one of their mothers told them the story about Mr. Anderson and Mr. Jones. You see, that night several years ago when Mrs. Anderson had died, it was in a car accident. She was hit by another car and killed. That driver who killed her was in a drunken stupor at the time.His name was Mr. Jones.

The Number One Fan, by Gretchen VanOstrand

9/6/2023

The usher swiped the metal seat, the perfunctory cleaning before seating the fans in row 22, seats 3 and 4. This was Bill’s routine since the ballpark opened. He managed a slight smile as the little girl in seat 4, nudged by her father, handed Bill a dollar.

“Thank you, little lady,” Bill bowed exaggeratedly.

The girl grinned; her gap-toothed smile framed by blue lips stained from the snow cone she was intently devouring. She wore an orange shirt, her small face hidden under the brim of her ballcap, which looked to be about three sizes too large.

“I’m Brooks, and it’s my birthday. This was what I wanted more than anything!” she exclaimed.

“Well, then, happy birthday, Brooks!” Bill replied.

To Bill, it seemed that most fans were only there to drink and eat, seldom looking up from their phones. Bill retrieved baseballs and tossed them to the young kids, who waited with outstretched gloves, hoping to snag one. Recently, the ballpark had made news with reports of people fighting over fly balls and violent attacks by drunks in the stands. Baseball was hurting, and so was Bill’s heart.

“Please remove your hats and stand for the national anthem,” the announcement blared over the park’s intercom. Bill waited for the inevitable tap on the shoulder by a fan coming in late trying to find their seat. He glanced at Brooks and her dad, rising out of their seats. Brooks looked at Bill sternly and gestured wildly at his hat, still perched on his head. Bill couldn’t believe he had gotten lost in his negative ruminations. Again. Brooks gave Bill the thumbs up, and he swore he heard her the loudest during, “Ohhhhh!! say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave…”

Finally, it was time for the 7th inning stretch. Bill’s back was aching. He was mad at himself for his lousy attitude and needed some aspirin.

“George,” Bill called, “can you watch my section while I take a leak?”

“Sure, Bill. Take your time,” George replied, but Bill was already gone. George shrugged.

Bill was sure George, Tom, and the other guys could tell he hadn’t been himself lately, but this funk had been building. If the fans didn’t care about the game, why should he? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of aspirin. Folded up in his khakis was his resignation letter.

The O’s beat the Yankees, 9-8. Then Bill saw Brooks’ father approach him, carrying Brooks who appeared to be sleeping. The man stuck out his hand to shake Bill’s hand.

“I wanted to personally thank you for everything you do here, bud. We’re huge fans and I just couldn’t wait to take Brooks here like my dad took me. I’m Dale, by the way. We’re gonna be back for the Sox game next month and I hope to see you again,” Dale said, releasing his firm handshake.

“I think that can be arranged,” Bill replied. “Drive safe, now.”

Three Columns, by Barry O'Farrell

2/6/2023

Duncan Malloy, Barrister and Solicitor drew two equally spaced lines on a blank sheet of A4 paper as he spoke. “Under client/lawyer privilege we can talk openly.” He pushed the paper across the desk to his client.

“Privilege I understand. But what’s this?” replied the distinguished looking client sitting opposite him.

“A simple exercise I have designed to help us understand both the problem and where the solution might lay.”

He client looked perplexed. “Hmm, simple you say.”

“Yes, simple. In the first column write down what you hoped to achieve by this alleged forged signature. This is the core of the fraud accusation.”

“I hired you to defend me. I am innocent and…”

“And we can do this hypothetically,” interrupted Malloy, “Would you be more comfortable with a hypothetical? Would you?”

The besuited client slumped in his chair. Slowly he lifted his head, set his chin, took a deep breath, and then resignedly began to write a few words followed by an amount in Pounds. This was a normal first column sequence, and outcome, in Malloy’s experience.

“In the second column list what you stand to lose should the allegations be proven in Criminal Court.”

The client paused for a long time twisting his pen repeatedly.

“Worst case scenario?” he asked. Malloy silently nodded. “Prison time?” was his next question.

“Allow five years,” Molloy stated. Beads of sweat popped up on his client’s brow.

The atmosphere went heavy. The second column took a long time to deliberately complete.

To avoid eye contact Malloy swivelled his chair and stared out the window. From his client long, thoughtful pauses between sentences while he alternately rubbed his chin and tugged his ear. The lawyer read this as a sign his prominent client was making an earnest, if painful attempt at recognising the downside fully.

“Third column,” the client eventually announced.

“Now write down how much you are prepared to pay to each of the aggrieved parties to make this go away. And then tally the figures for me.”

The client paused, tapped his pen on the table a few times, wrote slowly and then pushed the paper back to Malloy. With an appreciation for figures keened over 30 years of negotiating settlements, Malloy barely glanced at the words. His eyes focussed on the figures written in the third column.

Malloy leant forward. “The money amounts you have nominated are realistic. I can make this work. You have done well M’Lord.”

“Thank you” was the quiet reply.

Malloy made strong eye contact. “Discretion…we will have confidentiality agreements all round. Not a word to the media.”

“That would…uhm, be ideal, yes.”

“Your seat in the House of Lords will be safe M’Lord. You are a tribute to your Party. None of this will be an impediment to you receiving a knighthood. You have done well Sir.”

Malloy offered his right hand. His Lordship enjoyed Malloy’s strong, reassuring handshake saying with a knowing wink, “A knighthood for you in due course.”

What's Your Point, by Libby Belle

2/6/2023

My friend, known to be an astute violin teacher, told me a story about his new young student Jackson who was in the Army for ten years and now a single civilian. I was all ears.

“So…Jackson was in Afghanistan leading a troop by the river when he came upon a crowd of people wailing and crying, pointing at the river and its contents…which was a bus full of people with many on top clinging for their lives while being swiftly swept away. The townspeople had no means to save them - no rope, chain, nothing. They stood there helpless…horrified…waiting for the bus to sink. Jackson called his superior officer and asked him should he pull the bus out. As the officer yelled an emphatic NO! Jackson pretended he lost the call and made a conscious decision to pull the bus out anyway.”

There was an intentional pause, waiting for my reaction, which was, “Oh my, did the people on the bus survive?”

“WHAT? That’s not the point! What he did is the point.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not finished with the story,” he grumbles. "So, later, to show their appreciation for his good deed, the townspeople asked Jackson to dinner. Knowing his superior officer would object, he wanted to honor their request and accepted the dinner invitation without permission.”

“Oh,” I said again. It seems I’m full of “ohs.”

“That’s not the correct response,” he says, as if I were his student.

“What?”

“You missed the point entirely. Aren’t you impressed that Jackson did what was right?”

“What?” It seems that I ask “what” a lot, too.

“You do this every time! You don’t think it out! You don’t get the point!”

“On the contrary, I did think it out. I wanted to know more, like was anyone saved.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Oh…well…to me it is. I took the story very seriously. Did the people on the bus live or did he just save the bus?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. What’s your point?”

Before Dawn, by Angela Carlton

2/6/2023

When I lost you, I didn’t sleep. Instead, I counted the stars that night for a distraction. Days ago, you were by my side in your comfy chair as I read to you and watched your chest rise to remind me there was a twinge of hope for you were still breathing from the illness that robbed us. It smacked us. Sometimes, we took short walks you and I, listening to the breeze amongst the trees and the children laughing, screaming chasing one another round and round in the streets to remind us of joy, the joy that still existed.

The thing is, I didn’t get to tell you goodbye for you slipped away before dawn, the day the crows were circling, crying loud in the sky outside my window. They cried-cried-cried until I woke feeling empty and exhausted in a pool of my sweat.

Yes, they cried for you.
And they cried for me.

Headshot Photographer, by Scott C. Holstad

2/6/2023

I had agreed to meet the headshot photographer at a seedy burger joint in a bad section off Sunset Boulevard. I arrived typically early, found a parking space and decided to look for a bar to get a drink.

The only place in sight had a marquee shouting,

GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!

Well, I hadn’t been to a strip club since I’d gotten married, so I thought what the hell, why not, and walked in. I was immediately greeted by a small, smoky room rouged red with mahogany dark lighting. Two girls in lingerie barely concealing anything lounged on a bench while a couple of shady looking men stuck to the shadows.

But where was the damn bar? And the stage? What about dancers?

One of the men approached and asked if I wanted a dance. At first, I thought he meant with him. I declined and he then offered up that the dance would be with one of the girls.

“Dance” I said? “Well maybe, but where’s the stage and dance floor?” The man replied, “All dances are private here and they go from $60 for a basic dance to $250 for the works.” The two women had gotten off the bench and were busy caressing me when it finally dawned: I was in a house of ill repute! My wife always claimed I was obtuse, a nice way of saying “dense.”

I took a harder look at the guy. He was wearing a leather coat and was angled slightly toward me. Which gave me an opportunity to spot the semi stuck butt outward toward me inside the left waistband of his pants.

Well, as tempting as those friendly girls were, and the kind offer too, I said “no thanks, friend” and beat a hasty retreat out of there, heading down the block to the burger joint to meet the photographer.

Everything Forever, by Steven Holding

How Far the Moon? by Anthony Ward

Things Are the Way They‘ve Always Been, by John O’Keefe

The Tank, by Paul Rogalus

Juneteenth, 2023, by Sankar Chatterjee

My Digital-Rope-a-Dope, by Bud Pharo

Love's Divine Resilience, by J. Iner Souster

Love at First Sight Only, by John O’Keefe

Floating, by Angela Carlton

Bottled Up, by Anthony Ward

Night on the Town, by Bill Tope

Mr. Anderson's Secret, by Doug Bartlett

The Number One Fan, by Gretchen VanOstrand

Three Columns, by Barry O'Farrell

What's Your Point, by Libby Belle

Before Dawn, by Angela Carlton

Headshot Photographer, by Scott C. Holstad

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