"Regrets remain with you forever.  Remember that, son."
Will Garret sadly recalled the words his father said the night before he married Janet.  Today should have been their 25th wedding  anniversary, a time for celebration. But today is just another day in his lonely life.

Several years ago he had it all...a loving family, a beautiful home, and an lucrative career.  Gone was his family and home replaced by alimony and child support.  His career had blossomed into a routine job. 

At first it was just flirting but that soon evolved into more romantic thoughts.  A dalliance with a flippant little thing who had long ago moved on to another besotted man was always to have remained buried within his soul.  Was it that long lunch which lead to a late night liason that aroused Janet's suspicion? Or was it his tiredness after that? Perhaps it was the guilt that he wore on his face after that encounter. She knew something was amiss and in a furious fashion she cross examined him.  And when the truth was told, it hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her stunned silence slowly stirred up into a roaring rage and the intensity of her anger grew as time passed on. That night his morals wouldn't have filled a thimble.  He had become a cheat, an adulterer, but he didn't want to become a liar on top of that.  Janet was at least due the truth. An indiscretion, a bad decision, an eruption of emotions and an acknowledgement that the past could not be changed had redesigned their lives.

Will had assumed that the truth would have set him free and understanding and forgiveness from Janet would eventually be forthcoming.  Instead it enchained her in misery for what seemed an eternity. It was a wound that would never heal thereby not allowing him to rid himself of the remorse he constantly felt. Janet had permanently shut him out of her life.  Will was left with only memories of a once happy marriage.

"Regrets remain with you forever."  It was too late when he realized the true value of those words.  ​

The barroom was dark, except for dim overhead lights. An off-duty medic, firefighter, and nurse sat on red leather bar stools at the end of the polished wooden bar. They were watching the morning news on television and reading the morning newspaper.
.
Sarah sat next to an already drunken man, who was smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and talking to himself. He looked about 40. His brown bangs were pressed down on his forehead by a well-worn cap. His striking blue eyes could be seen, despite his eyelids drooping from intoxication.

Sarah heard him say something about the gulf. Since a lot of former military people spend time in this neighborhood dive bar, she took a guess.

"Did you serve in the Persion Gulf War," she asked?

"Yes," he said. "I was a Lance Corporal in the Marines until the court-martial."

"What happened," Sarah asked?

"Someone said, 'You have 24 hours to live'," he answered.

"Who," Sarah asked?

"I don't know," he replied, "but I broke into a sweat and started shaking," he said, butting his Marlboro in a cheap black plastic ashtray and ordering another Budweiser.

Believing his life was about to end soon, he jumped into a formidable MIA1 Abrams tank and drove it at its maximum speed of 45 mph to a liquor store in Iraq. After buying four cases of beer, he strapped them to the sand-colored, armored battle tank, and rushed back to camp.

His journey didn't go unnoticed.
"Someone snitched on me," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. The court martial resulted in his losing the rank of Lance Corporal, but he faced no other disciplinary measures, at least none that he told Sarah about.

About a year later, she saw him at a neighborhood party. His short dark brown pompadour was neatly styled. He had grown a gray and brown beard. His blue eyes were clear. He stood erect, his chin firm. Had he been in uniform, he would have made a great model for a United States Marine Corps recruiting poster.

Standing by the band playing rock classics, he sang along and tapped his feet. He had an open pint of Southern Comfort in a brown paper bag and a pack of Marlboros in the pocket of his khaki slacks.

Walking up to him, Sarah said, "Remember me from David's Bar?" "Yeah," he said. People were shooting pictures all over the park during the event. There were speeches, food trucks, free pumpkins, face paintings, and raffles.

"I want my picture taken with a handsome man," Sarah said with determination. "What handsome man," he asked? "You," she said, smiling. He seemed genuinely surprised that anyone considered him handsome.

After the photos were taken, Sarah asked about his military career. "My twenty years are up in January," he said, looking up through the golden leaves of a tree to a blue sky with cotton puff clouds floating by. "I can't wait to get out. I've watched the world blow up."
​

​In the corner of Sal's Saloon bar, Dead-Eye Dora and Fast Fran were the last pair still playing poker at the "regular's table".
 
While Dora studied her hand, Fran waved across the only man present, Justin the barman.
 
"Hey Justin," she said, grabbing his groin and squeezing it, "got my room booked for tonight?"
 
"Sure, Fran," Justin said. "You know Sal's motto: Serve you now, service you later."
 
"Attaboy," Fran said, slapping his rear to send him away.
 
Fran and Dora drew two cards each. Dora adjusted her eye-patch and pushed a pile of notes into the pot. "I'll see you."
 
Fran matched her, and nodded.
 
Dora spread her hand on the table.
 
"Full house – three fourteens and two nineteens."
 
"Too bad," Fran said. "Four seventeens." She reached out for the pot.
 
Dora stood up. "Not so fast. A deck of cards doesn't contain seventeens."
 
Slowly, Fran stood up, too. Menace.
 
"Are – you – calling – me – a – cheat?"
 
Suddenly, the lights went out, followed by flashes and gunfire. When someone found the light switch again, Dora lay dead under the table. Fran casually blew smoke from the barrel of her Colt 45 and returned it to its holster.
 
Justin called across, "Another drink, anyone? Last orders!"
 
It was the cue for Dora to leap up from the floor. "Two glasses of white wine, Justin. Fran – this one's on me. Pinot grigio?"
 
"Sure, Dora. One day you need to learn to take your poker more seriously, though."

The summer days were fading and the town bade its final adieu to that carefree season by hosting their annual festival at the school's grounds. Though an informal event, its setting afforded artists, craftsmen, and performers to come together to display their talents to their neighbors. 

Something caught Scott's eye.  It was a canvas covered with a bunch of blobs and splotches, yet, the soft muted earth tone colors presented a sense of tranquility.  Perhaps that was what appealed to Scott about this painting.  He wondered if a state of calmness could exist in chaos. 

"Do you like this painting"?  the petite brunette asked.  "What do you think was on the artist's mind as it was being painted"? 

Giving her the once over and liking what he saw, Scott did his best to remain somewhat neutral, "It is quite interesting in form and color.  Perhaps the artist was conveying harmony ... how different elements can be at peace with each other." 

"Actually, I was thinking of nothing...just using up excess paint,"  the petite brunette replied.

Scott's eyes widened.  "You're Jill Jackson, the artist"?

Jill put on her perky smile and nodded affirmitively.

"But I thought...ummmm...that..." 

"I let my hands converse with the paint and give someone else the opportunity to interpret their conversation.  I never inform the public of my private thoughts.  The canvas is the keeper of my secrets." 

That afternoon, Scott was given an eyeful and an earful of a new world to be explored.  He was intrigued by this artist and her humbleness in granting the public discretion in the interpretation of her work.  He felt an urgency to discover everything about her.

Jill's artistic eye immediately saw the depth of character and good will in Scott.  She saw a treasure trove of inspiration to be splashed on a variety of blank surfaces.

And as their perspective of each other intersected, sparks flashed in each other's eyes.

Summer may have been coming to an end, but a season of love was just beginning to bloom.  It didn't have to be portrayed on canvas...their glowing expressions said it all. 
​

Ten year -old Timmy proudly walked into the local cafe with a huge grin on his small face and found an empty booth to sit at. He had been consumed with the one thought every night and day for the last few weeks of eating his favorite food. He had just been paid for mowing a neighbor’s lawn. He could now afford to buy a hot fudge sundae.Mounds of vanilla ice cream smothered with hot fudge, squirted with a mountain of whipped cream, generously sprinkled with chopped peanuts and topped with a bright red cherry. He loved sundaes more than anything else to eat. He emptied all the coins he had in his pockets 0nto the tabletop and started counting them when the waitress came over to him.

​
“What will you have?” she said gruffly and impatiently. She figured this kid would cost her extra time causing her to lose tip money from other customers.

“How much is a hot fudge sundae?” he asked her as he counted up his change.


“You have just enough,” she growled after taking up her precious time to add up his coins., “but it will take all you have.”


“Oh, no, I can’t do that,” he exclaimed, “Then I’ll just have a single scoop of vanilla ice cream.” He knew that would leave him with money left over.


“ Yup,” the waitress thought,” he’s already wasting my time.”

She sure didn’t appreciate Timmy as a customer and was glad to see him leave.
She went over to the table to clear it when her heart sank and a tear trickled down her cheek.

You see, Timmy had left all of his money on the table. The waitress then realized he didn’t order that sundae he wanted so badly because he wouldn’t have had enough money to leave her a tip.

It’s 4 am. My Mother wants to drive. There’s nowhere for us to go, but she wants to tell me about Jesus, the devil and music. I am almost 6 years old, my feet can barely touch the floorboard in the car. She has turned the radio knob up as high as it will go, and the sounds of pianos, guitars and horns fill the air.

My Mother used to be a sexy singer in a cocktail lounge, before her head got sick, all sour. Now, she collects checks in the mailbox, and we just drive. She begins to hum now, and in her deep, pretty voice, she sings “Wild...fire,” loud, intense like she’s back on stage again. My insides go all soft like red playdough, and I shuffle my feet for a few seconds. The Wildfire song is about a horse. I should know. I’ve heard it one hundred seventeen times. It makes me want to catch one fast and ride off and away. My Mom thinks she needs to practice her singing every single day. She thinks if she drives-drives-drives, sings enough, she will get her job back, and my Daddy might come home too. I think me chasing down a horse will happen first! I look for my horse in the fields, out the glass window, white ones, golden, brown ones, my favorite, are the black ones. They shine like they are almost blue in the sun.

When she’s not singing, she’s talking about Jesus almighty, the devil’s water and all of my Daddy’s sins, but I don’t say a word. You can’t fix a sour head. And when she starts to say all those curse words, and beats her fist against the steering wheel, her tears will come fast like bullets. I take a deep breath then like I might be blowing out all the candles that light darkness. The piano in the background soothes me for a minute or two, but she’s running through the red lights now. That is when, I have to pretend, we are on a magic carpet ride again, and I get to go to special places, like most kids do, maybe the skating rink, a bowling alley or that park with the six flags. We’re flying up high now, all over, looking down at the lime grass, and those itty-bitty yellow flowers, the ones Daddy picked once for my Mother back when her face was bright as the fat moon, and she didn’t need to drive down all these dead end streets.

At the end of the magic ride, I spot all those circles and circles of cool, turquoise water that make me want to hold my breath, jump in, kick and kick as fast as I can until my eyeballs burn, but I don’t. And I don’t get to chase my horse today, either.

Still, sometime tomorrow, after 4 am, I’ll get to go to the circus.
​