Oh no! The big game and Trina’s company dinner are on the same night. What’s Mac going to do?
“I know,” Mac thought. “I’ll hide a tiny radio in my pants pocket and run the earphones up my coat sleeve. No one will ever notice!”
*****
Mark changed the channel confident he’d seen that episode before.
Approaching the house, the silence disturbed him. Where were the squealing children? The music blaring from his son’s bedroom? It was too quiet.
Opening the door, he caught a whiff of Pine-Sol rising from the kitchen floor… on a Tuesday!
It could mean only one thing… an infamous “last second visit” by his parents.
Tommy and Frank say quietly at the bar nursing their beers. Neither said anything - it wasn’t their way - but they were worried about Mark. It wasn’t like him to not show up… not even for something as trivial as happy hour.
Suddenly the door burst open. “Drinks are on me, fellas! I’m having a boy!”
“Half way there,” he said aloud, though no one was around to hear him. His quest had begun weeks ago, and as many weeks still lay before him.
He pressed on, driven by the memory of her scent and the hope of her presence once again. In five hundred miles his hope would be realized.
The clock struck three in the morning as John shook the match out and took a drag on a fresh cigarette. Grabbing his drink, he made his way over to the couch and sat, exhausted yet unable to sleep. The haze of smoke stung his dry eyes. He took a sip and sighed. “Fucking Raleigh!”
Next up is Mouse Tourmaline with a little ribbing aimed our ourselves.
My only true masterpiece. Fifty-five careful, eloquent words. Laying the page on the table, I waited for his praise.
“Fifty-six.”
“…What?”
“You’ve made a mistake. That word’s hyphenated.” A smile. “Better luck next time.”
The crimson droplets look misplaced, scattered on my manuscript. But at least nobody will ever again threaten its perfection.
We begin Sunday with a story from David Katz.
“Penny speckled words layered on top of four letter verbs is a recipe for disaster,” muttered the stranger as we made our way to get rid of the evidence.
Somehow he knew what went on behind closed doors that night. The couple got out of hand. Harsh words were thrown, and apparently, so were fists.
We finish this Saturday with a story from Loren.
The date was so-so.
He’d picked you up promptly at seven, opened the car door for you and driven to the restaurant, which was upscale enough without being too fancy.
There was no spark. You expected end the night as “just friends”.
But on the way home, he started singing.
Next up: A humorous submission from Steve Talbert.
Some criminal cases fade from memory like the scent of laundered bed linens in early spring. Others linger like the odor of Limburger on a hot August afternoon.
Remembering one olfactory incident still causes me to gasp and gag: I don’t know what the burglar ate, but his emissions led to his capture and arrest.
We begin this weekend with a story from Mary Holm.
Samantha Rose in frilly dress and patent leather shoes, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, pouts in her bedroom at the top of the stairs. Mother’s soft knock at the door goes unanswered. The cat slinks past, avoiding the pieces of the broken vase scattered across the polished hardwood floor.
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