The Arizona sun had nearly killed Louie, something the marshal’s posse wasn’t able to do either. One little poker fight and suddenly he wasn’t welcome anymore. Since the law was already against him, he might as well give them a few legitimate reasons. Louie dusted himself off and began the long walk back into town.
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A faint, muted drumming could be felt above. Minutes later the first drops of moisture made their way to the husk, creeping through the slowly warming soil. Within the seed an alarm rang and a spark ignited. The husk cracked, and a fragile green tendril began chasing the rain on its course to the sky.
Jimmy ricocheted down the hall like a pinball until he reached the last bedroom door. He tip-toed through the midnight gloom and crawled into bed.
“Jimmy, what are you doing?” came a woman’s tired voice over the sound of a man’s snore.
Pondering the question a moment Jimmy replied, “Mom, I drink I’m stunk.”
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Maria put away the last of the groceries and collapsed in a chair. Her husband was hunched over the table fidgeting with some broken toy for their daughter. It was an ordinary moment in a common day, and Maria was delighted. With a twinkle in her eye she breezed by him on the way upstairs.
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This one comes from Simone Patrick.
They sit in a park, watching kids play. She looks endearingly at him. He looks fascinated, at the children.
Without looking at her, he says, “I want to have a bunch of them, someday.”
Her hand wanders over the flat stomach she took years to attain.
Still looking at him she says, “Yeah. Me too.”
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Another humorous one from Mort Ginsberg.
Ida pulled Sarah aside at the senior center. “Becky really looks terrible,” she whispered. “I hear she’s got a terrible case of E.D.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Sarah, “women don’t get E.D!”
“Oh, no? She’s been feeling terrible ever since Ed retired and stays home with her all day!”
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Our final story this Saturday comes from Natalie Mosier. Thanks, Natalie!
She threw herself on me, ignoring the groan I let out. Her eyes, dancing in the sunlight, told me what she wanted. I knew instantly, but I didn’t want to, not today. I had to give her a signal to show the mood wasn’t right. My cushions shifted, allowing her to comfortably nap as usual.
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Another story from Mort.
“You’re killing us, Joe, you know,” cried Terry.’
“I hate doing this to you. Let’s just say I’m sending you to a better place. So, come out of the closet, you and Serge and Levi, too.”
“Joey,” shouted Lisa, “will you get those clothes down here. The thrift shop truck should be here any minute!”
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We start off this weekend with one from Mort Ginsberg.
“Great soup, honey! Boy, for someone who doesn’t like to cook, you sure outdid youself with this one,” said Bruce to his wife. “What do you call it?” “Puree Mongol, glad you like it,” answered Joyce, laughing as she quickly tossed the empty tomato and split pea soup cans into the trash.
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“Dad, I’m serious. Listen for a minute.”
“You’re not in trouble are you? You need money?”
“No, no, nothing like like that. It’s… it’s more personal.”
“Heh, girl troubles? We Thomas men can’t keep ‘em off us.”
“Well, close. But not quite.”
“What? You’re not gonna tell me you’re gay are you?
“Actually… I am.”
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