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*NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Any person’s name, herein mentioned, has been made up for the purpose of this short story. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A street off the strip in Vegas. Sitting, downing a triple shot of speed rack bourbon. Jukebox, a relic, spewing out U2’s “I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.” I hadn’t. I haven’t. I thought I had, but I didn’t. More experiences than most would ever have. More opportunities. More chances. More. And yet: barren, aching, breaking, tearless and lost. Sitting, boozing, losing, intellectually snoozing, but coming by it honestly. She was gone. Lost to me. Gone to time. Gone to wine. Gone. A moment of love, a moment of loss. Such are the moments of our lives; veni, vidi, vici. I came; I saw; I conquered. Or so I thought. Time can be a friend, or an enemy. My glass was emptying. Music changing. Me, drifting. Sifting my thoughts, from the randomness of my brain’s thinking, as the tunes cranked and pulled me deeper within. Memories of what was. The good was missed. The bad was converted to good. The ugly was seen as okay.  Write a comment
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Located at 27° 9′ 0″ N, 109° 25′ 30″ W ,Wabego Bay was a tranquil retreat from the hustle, bustle and mindless go-go of big city buffoonery.
Wabegians, as the local baysters called themselves, liked taking it easy and breezy. Where they were was just the kind of windy port-of-call catering to their existential need for air speed.
Ah Wabego Bay, little known and little knowable about it -apart from what visitors relayed to the outside world. A confectionary coated enigma, double dipped in mystery and obscured in sea mist. As much a place as a state of mind, Wabego Bay was all things to all people who chose it to be so.
As a locale, it was as much an internal, spiritual destination as a geophysical set point, a place where the visceral met the ethereal in sweet, swirling winds of self-sanctioned bliss. Wabego Bay, where the sun shone black as coal at night; where people danced till 11 in the morning while drinking coconut milk blended with kelp and a dash of bitters and speaking sensible gibberish.
The classic treatise on Wabego Bay, Wabego Bay: The Way of the Wind focused on mysticism and magic over money and materialism. As a graduate student in physical anthropology with a predilection for sub-stratum studies, Willy Whompus became enthralled with what the book termed, "The call of the wind." Write a comment |
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In the morning they woke up. They had been here all night long. They are here during most nights. One of them tends to stay longer than the other. That one comes and lies down early. The other one gets here later. They both get off me around the same time in the morning. Today was a day like most days. One of my friends, the alarm clock on my right hand side, rang at six. Up they sprang. And thank goodness they did. After having them on me all night, my springs start to ache. Being a bed might seem pretty passive, but let me assure you, I do more than my fair share of work. Write a comment |
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The Incredible But True Story (Not Really) of Sheepshire Hanklemice and the Rotting Gift Basket of Fruit; A Tale Perfidius Bimbum was having a bad day, a really bad day. "I am having a really bad day," he said. A person can be mad. A person can be sad. A person can be bad. A person can have a bad day. Bimbum was having just that, or so he proclaimed.
What was the origin of his troubles? What indeed?
It seemed that Bimbum, who was a professor of 15th century eclectic Near Eastern philosophy, suffered two incidents within a 24 hour time span that fouled his mood. The first was that his 16 pet yodeling parakeets had escaped their cages. The second was that he had received a rotting gift basket of fruit.
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Every fifth Friday in Tiny Town, Reolaf Gretzz met his friends at Borriss Z. Thanngg's Inauthentic Dumpling Bistro. Word about town was that the food was to die for. In fact, an average of six people perished at the restaurant every year from Ptomaine poisoning.
Since its mention in the tabloid press, gaggles of glitterati dined at the dive. Consequently, the good folks at the DDC - Disease Discussion Center - got a pool going to see what celeb might bite the big one next.
Reolaf was a man of simple pleasures. He enjoyed walking his pet dung beetle Wally. He enjoyed picking daffodils. He enjoyed breakfasts of week old bread, reveling in its natural, un-toasted crunchiness. He enjoyed dining at Borriss Z. Thanngg's establishment.
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