Listen to an excerpt on YouTube from Bindweed Magazine Editor in Chief, Leilanie Stewart’s novel, Gods of Avalon Road. It’s on sale for £5.00 from her online shop Meandi Books throughout March to celebrate World Book Day on 4th March. Free shipping worldwide using code ZDP85H at checkout. Enjoy!
Title: Brexit Brokeshit
Genre: Poetry and Fiction
Author: Joseph Robert
Length: 72 pages
Publisher: Meandi Books
Publication date: 28 July 2019
Extract from Brexit Brokeshit:
Flecks of mineral, white in red dregs
Hard water and dirt in them dregs
But the lees sounds so mucher the betterer, the best dregs
All hints of chocolate and rounded fruits
And, and Dionysius’s fashionable mask
Goldenly E.U. stars on blue smudge
Reassurance of highest quality
National Geographicca typico, besto in all the bloody mess
Vine bile, or grape tar, or agro syrup,
Or portable, potable, pissable heartburn
Unfastens the thinking and lays a body low
Two scoops of, no, Medicine to forget
Yeah, yeah, Medicine to forget
Read, in a mag, root o’ culture, bulwark of civilization
Like getting down on all fours to sip the waters of that, that
Mystical river, the one, you know
Medicine to forget
How it works, forget
But always remember who makes the stuff
Where and why for, and what they charging?
That’s a good Primitive.
Billion Euro Cheeseburger
Billion Euro Cheeseburger, its coming soon,
whether through hyperinflation, hypergourmandation, avant-
garde arty stunting, or tax hole ‘sploitation, it is coming,
Billion Euro Cheeseburger,
laugh, don’t laugh, eyebrow arch, eyeball roll, same diff.:
a Billion Euro Cheeseburger’ll be served up, just the same,
‘But will you swallow it?’ will be the question claimed via
MEdia to be on everybody’s oft-spoken-for, static lips.
Billion Euro Cheeseburger, grab her by the buns and list off
every currency name securely deposited in your head, past
present, real and made up, blink and think of their symbols,
cos I can’t be bothered to do it for you anymore for I fear,
Billion Euro Cheeseburger, Happiness Hand Grenades and things
that make as much out of little sense as Grexit, stage left.
In my Eu-topia,
Bureaucrats would be promoted solely on the grounds,
Of honesty, personal honour and due diligence,
An army of friends and an armoury of credentials,
Following after school chums, death-gripping their coattails
Would be grounds for immediate dismissal,
Also, the highest pensions should go to those,
Who don’t make real money,
In their prime,
All right fine,
I’ll eat my Brussels sprouts and go to bed without dessert,
To have night terrors about nativist campaigners,
Because that’s really worked out so well in Europe’s past,
At midnight, I hold tight to my stuffed plush bear, Utopia,
A harmless fantasy, like Santa Claus when I was younger,
It helps keep me sane.
The Adversity of Diversity
“I’ve got nothing against that sort of people. Not in general. Just the criminals who steal our jobs. You agree with me, sure enough.”
“Give us another beer, mate.”
“Right! Exactly. There you go. The facts are there if you open your eyes, listen to the radio. In the papers though, read carefully . . . But you know it’s about our way of life.”
“Fuck yeah, so who you putting your money on this Sunday?”
“That’s not betting. Rigged, all of it, a fix. This entire season money’s talked. That, that pretty boy can be brilliant to watch. I’ll grant you he’s in fine form, but I don’t like the dodgy look of him. Wouldn’t let my daughter near the likes of him. Made the boy take his poster down. Not a proper role model.”
“Too right. So, nice weather we’re having. Heard it won’t last past Monday, but the fuckers are wrong half the time.”
“My boss at work is one of them. But he’s alright. Most the time. Except when he pals up with his own, but the exception proves the rule, as they say, and they’re right. My dad said so, rest his bones. Never get that supervisor job. You watch. They don’t play fair, always a united front they put up. Take that stuck-up bitch next door. Like her ugly kids shit don’t smell.”
“You’re a laugh minute, sure enough, and you got a lot to say and that’s the truth. But leave the children out of it, eh? They can’t help it.”
“I do what’s best by my people and I tell it like it is. Said that to the magistrate too. Out of character, out of character, right, sorry. Bollocks! Damn sure they weren’t going have it their way with me. Not when they’re the ones that are out of character. No backbone, no values. Ah, but what can you do these days? You have to laugh.”
“Cheers, I’ll drink to that.”
“You’ll drink to anything, Pat, you crazy Irish bastard.”
“Give us a ciggie.”
“Fuck’s sake. Here.”
“Ta very much. You’re a prince of a man.”
“Oi! You over there. The fuck you looking at, cunts? That’s right. On yer way. Don’t eyeball me. Lived here my whole life.”
“Steady, man. Mind the heart condition. Boys probably didn’t mean anything by it. Leave it alone.”
“Everybody knows me as a decent bloke.”
“Uh-huh, that’s right.”
“I know how I’m voting, and you should do the same.”
“Can’t be arsed, things are the way they are, and I can’t change a thing.”
“Fuck off then.”
“Joking, joking. You have to have a laugh. Every day above ground is a good day.”
“Oh, well, alright then. But jokes apart, these goddamned asylum-seekers are colonizing this street. Christ, and what they make their women wear! It’s barbaric. I remember this neighborhood when it was the way it should be.”
“Say, where’s the bog, mate?”
“Through there and to the left. Just don’t piss all over the seat. The missus would fucking murder me. Crazy foreign bitch. You know that lot. They’re hot-blooded.”
More about the author at: https://josephrobert.home.blog/
More Bindweed Magazine news this month: we’ve been included on The Short List, which lists fiction magazines. The site is run by DL Shirey and is a great resource for writers looking to markets to submit their work to.
Title: Ursa Rising
Author: Sheila Englehart
Format: Ebook available through Amazon at: https://smile.amazon.com/Ursa-Rising-Sheila-Englehart/dp/1535044446/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1472926859&sr=8-1&keywords=ursa+rising
Pages: 344 pages
Published: 1 July 2016
Extract from ‘Ursa Rising’ by Sheila Englehart
“Rock and roll makes everyone a time traveler.
When you hear a great song, you go somewhere cool.”
Chris Cromwell, lead guitar for Ursa
Sherman Oaks was the perfect place to begin a film about a fallen star. Hadn’t O.J. lived around there at the time of the infamous white Bronco chase? Stalking seemed slimy, but Vanessa watched the Spanish-style mansion from a rental car like a jilted girlfriend. She dabbed on some lip balm and bit her lips together. Telling herself that the camera wouldn’t suck her soul away, she began her notes hoping some of the footage might be to keep in the actual film. The flashing green light next to the viewfinder mocked her anxiety. She took a few swipes at her hair, blew a fly-away strand from her eyes, and took the plunge.
“Notes for The Guitarist.” She fluttered her eyelids. Just like her to over-think how to proceed. She took a breath and pushed through. “Okay, my father was Jeremy Nash.” She held up a jewel case with a photo of the band and pointed at her father. “He played bass and wrote lyrics for Ursa. Their star was just starting to rise when he was killed the night of their last performance.” God, she sounded like a TV anchor. She willed her gaze to the lens, intent on telling the real story. “I want to know what part of my dad is in me. People always say I got my mom’s looks and my dad’s creativity. I’m not a musician like him, but I’ve always loved movies.
She closed her eyes, already editing, but kept going. He was your father. Be real.
“When my dad was on tour, he’d call and say, ‘What’d you make today?’ If I said I took a picture of a rainbow, he’d say, ‘I’ll bet it’s the most colorful rainbow ever captured on film.’ A total Dad thing to say.
“Fast-forward ten years later and I’m forgetting things about him. My memories are from my childhood and silly—his goofy laugh, his bag of laundry by the door, his voice on the phone. His cooking— everything had fruit, even spaghetti. I feel like he’s being erased like he was just a relative who doesn’t come around anymore.”
Her phone rang. She hit the end button to silence it, hating that it was now part of the recording. She cleared her throat and continued.
“I’m doing this film to find him again. Find him in me. I’m looking for answers from the people who knew him best, Benny Begara, Chris Cromwell, and Bud Gaynor of Ursa. Benny survived the accident but lost his singing voice. Let’s hope he doesn’t lose his mind when he finds out I followed him here.” Her phone rang, again. She couldn’t avoid her mother forever. Shit.
Charlotte could have taught a course on how to hitch a wagon to the brightest star. Her mother called her a no-good dreamer, but Charlotte had always been a doer. She’d laid tracks in her Toyota Celica immediately after graduation. She’d given herself a year to become an actress only to find her high school drama experience a far cry from Hollywood expectations. Apparently, she lacked most of the skills required—a rude awakening that only made her more determined to gain access to beautiful people through other avenues. Cosmetology school was the smartest move she’d ever made. Hair, make-up, skin care, nails—all stepping stones to the entertainment industry. She’d get to touch greatness, help improve them, contribute to their success, and network her ass off. That had been the plan. Work long enough to pay off her loans, buy a decent car, some respectable clothes, and land a hot, eligible, rising star.
She got her license just as a chair opened in a salon near her apartment, but not so far away from The Hills that she couldn’t move quickly should opportunity knock. Chair rental was outrageous in L.A., and she had to work nonstop to survive.
She didn’t see Jeremy Nash coming. He walked in and sat in her chair wanting rock star hair. His soothing voice shot her grand plan right out the window. The last thing she expected was to fall hard and fast for a musician, of all people. A bassist even, who’d balked at the hundred dollars the shop charged for her services at the time.
“Musicians are slackers who are always broke,” her mother had warned. “Every teenage boy in America has a G.D. guitar gathering dust under his bed. Pretending he’s a Beatle won’t make him John Lennon.”
But Charlotte couldn’t help herself. His eyes, his smile, his voice, his song lyrics, just the idea of him made her salivate. Her mother had never taught her how to undo bad decisions. She’d followed him to all his gigs and still made it to the shop every morning, bleary-eyed. She’d finessed him into moving in with her. Even lured him home after he finished at the studio instead of “drinking it over” at the bar with the band.
She’d fallen so hard for him that she stupidly let herself dream of marriage. But Jeremy Nash had no interest in a conventional life, even after she was pregnant. She’d gone as far as making an appointment with Planned Parenthood to terminate the problem but then, thought keeping the baby would keep the connection if he ever made it big. He still didn’t put a ring on her finger. Jeremy had committed to the baby and loved Vanessa a thousand times more than he’d ever loved Charlotte, if he’d ever loved her at all. She often wondered if she’d ever been his muse.
The last time she saw him they’d had a horrible argument over something as small as Vanessa’s science class. Long suppressed feelings came out of him before he stormed out. Charlotte knew before the door slammed in her face that there was no undoing the damage. Her life as she’d known it was over forever. A few hours later, his was too.
Benny had done a walk-through to make sure the place was tidy before his client arrived. Then he took a deep cleansing breath. The sixty-five hundred square feet of black and white marble smelled like freshly printed money.
The foyer led to a circular space showcasing a Steinway grand that stood as regal as it would have next to Julie Andrews or Barbara Streisand. He stepped into the kitchen trying to ignore the sexy beast in the next room that whispered his name. He checked his phone for messages, and his watch incessantly before peering past the door frame a few times. Finally, he could take no more.
Benny removed his suit jacket and laid it on a pristine white high-back by the doorway. He stepped into the room and paced a little before facing the piano.
He glanced at the security camera in the foyer that faced the front door. No cameras faced the piano. The last thing he needed was to be caught pounding on a client’s treasure. It might have been a gift from Billy Joel. Nah, they’d have mentioned that for sales purposes.
Benny lowered himself onto the bench sideways. He hadn’t touched a keyboard since the night Nash died. Thought about it, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He felt as if he didn’t deserve to enjoy music anymore – his or anyone else’s. But it had been ten years, and the itch was one he couldn’t ignore any longer. He glanced over at the shiny keyboard fall. Don’t do it. But his hands had minds of their own and lifted the fall to expose the ivories.
Oh, there you are. The black and white jewels screamed to be touched. This beautifully crafted piece probably sat ignored by the film producer who had paid a decorator to feature it as furniture. What a waste. A piano was made to sing.
Did he still have it in him?
At his grandmother’s insistence, Benny started lessons at four. Even though he’d enjoyed the prestige and respectability, by twelve his musical motivation had shifted from pleasing family to getting girls. He switched to the guitar, which was portable, looked cooler, and didn’t get him chased down by neighborhood bullies for wearing a suit to a recital.
His hand reached out to the keys, only to snap away as if they burned. It felt wrong. He didn’t play anymore, didn’t sing anymore, and wasn’t a musician anymore. His hands reached and retracted several times until his middle finger pinged the C as if on its own. The reverberation filled the room with as delightful a sound as a giggling toddler. He’d always loved the key of C. Conviction gripped his shoulders, and he swung his legs around to center.
His client was as late as any other in her tax bracket. Benny was used to it. He certainly wasn’t stealing their time. One more glance at the empty spot next to his BMW alone in the entryway before the keys had his full attention.
He sucked in a breath, loving and loathing the familiar pulsing in his nervous system, warm as a shot of bourbon. The piano offered safety to overcome the stage nerves he hadn’t felt since the last time Ursa had played a packed house. He let his fingers run scales up and down the length of the keyboard. The movements didn’t feel as foreign as he’d expected, so he progressed into a couple of arpeggios until he fell into a groove.
Nash said, “Got your balls back yet?”
Benny looked up to see Nash; bass slung low, looking as if he’d swallowed a secret. His aqua eyes and pearly white innocence annoyed Benny. He had that look every time they went on stage. As he waited to hear Nash count them in, Benny’s cheek twitched as he threw another quick glance outside.
“Breathe,” his grandmother would remind him. “Relax your shoulders. Don’t lean.”
One, two, three, four. The opening drums to Bob Seger’s “The Fire Inside” had rolled through his mind before he played into his favorite rocking piano piece. His fingers worked the notes as smoothly as a dress zipper. His hands relaxed until they moved as naturally as when they’d played every day. He looked up to see Nash in his mind’s eye, as a younger version of Seger: long dark hair, goatee, leather vest. A blue spot shone on him as they soared like gulls enjoying an up-draft. Benny glided through the melody. Nash belted out the lyrics just a few feet from him. They were at the edge of the piano solo when movement in his peripheral vision stopped him cold.
Shevaun Michaels, the wife of rapper X-Pat, stood in the foyer wearing more jewelry than clothing. Ferragamo bag linked in the crook of her arm, hand resting on artificially enlarged breasts that strained every stitch of her halter top, the diamond in her navel sufficient collateral for financing.
Shit. He might as well have been raiding the fridge dripping water from the Jacuzzi all over the marble. And now, she’d spread the word about how sad he looked trying to resurrect a moment of his squandered youth when he was still able to produce a vocal. There was nothing more pathetic than having a client witness him struggle to perform. But that wasn’t the most painful part. He didn’t get to finish the piece. That was worse than unfinished sex.
Benny hopped up from the bench. “Piano’s tuned.” He didn’t meet her gaze but stepped back into his real estate agent skin without bothering to retrieve his jacket. “I understand you were in catering?”
“Shall we start in the kitchen? You won’t believe the appliances. The owner’s wife was famous for her parties. A restaurant walk-in . . .”
He stopped. “Mmm?”
“You get your voice back?”
“Ah, no.” He glanced at the Steinway. “Just noodling around.”
“Shame. I liked your album. A lot of R&B undertones.”
Benny nodded. “That’s very kind. We did two, actually, but the label dumped the first.”
“Really?” Shevaun glided to him, a model down a catwalk without the horse-like gait. She laid a hand on his chest. “Too bad.”
Benny’s libido was being played. “Rap’s king now. When does your husband’s album drop?”
“Who knows?” She reached up and loosened his tie. “They’re still in the studio. I stopped waiting up.”
“Recording can be grueling. Especially if things aren’t . . .”
Her hand dragged slowly down to his crotch.
“. . . coming out to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Her handbag dropped to the floor with a thud. Did she have a gun in there? She stepped up and pressed her chest against him. A common occurrence to which Benny had grown accustomed – neglected wife desperate for attention while spending her husband’s money.
“Where would you like to start?” Benny asked.
Her curves were well measured and her lips equally full. She flashed a wicked smile. “Show me the piano.”
Benny enjoyed nontraditional spaces. He gazed at her mouth full of unnaturally white teeth as she tugged his belt buckle open. Now, how to close the deal without her jewelry scratching the piano?
“How do you feel about handcuffs?”
Vanessa watched the house from the street wishing she could get closer. Neighbors might call the police, but she needed a closer look at him. Would he even know anything? Would he agree to do the film? Would he be willing to dredge up the past again or tell her to get lost? What could he tell her about her father? Did he know what her mother had been hiding? She would not remind him about the restraining order.
She looked over at his BMW and wondered if he considered it less pretentious than a Mercedes. There was a little sticker in the bottom corner of the rear window. She picked up her camera hoping she could zoom close enough to make it out. Might be a parking pass. The built-in zoom whirred brought the focal point closer. Vanessa grinned. An old Bear Square, the black and blue band promo stickers with a profile of a bear’s head, mouth open in a full roar.
Her dad had been reading a lot of mythology at the time he’d come up with the name. Ursa was Latin for bear. Then Benny created the Bear Square. They used to give the stickers away, hoping a few fans would make it an iconic logo. Once the band hit its stride, their manager charged a buck for them. He’d marked his Beemer with his square, maybe so he could find it in big parking lots, or maybe to tell the world he wasn’t dead.
Time dragged. Impatient, she shouldered her camera and climbed out of the rental car, careful to bump the door closed with her hip, so it caught the latch with little noise. She imagined her approach to be like the Pink Panther slinking across the street through the open gate along the hedge line, hoping there weren’t any nosey neighbors watching. Vanessa had no idea what she might run into, or what she would say if she came face to face with Benny.
In jeans and T-shirt, she stuck out like a cat burglar in a ski mask. She jogged to the east end of the house, tucking herself into the shrubbery, praying there were no sensors wired to a security system. The branch poking into her rib cage reminded her of how stupid this idea was, but she was committed. Logic said she should be able just to go right up to him, no problem. After all, she used to call him Uncle Benny. But if he contacted her mom? Big problem.
She still hadn’t dredged up the courage to tell her mother about the money she’d liberated from her trust. And Vanessa was painfully aware that her money had once been Benny’s, extorted from him in a lawsuit over her father’s death. Her mother would never have consented to her having anything to do with Ursa.
The sound of a piano caught her attention and drew her closer. She could hear it clearly enough to recognize that it was not from the Ursa playlist. Was it Benny or someone else? She had to see for sure. God, what if this was his girlfriend’s house? She was about to be a peeping . . . Tanya.
A door chime interrupted the piano. Vanessa’s heartbeat quickened. Had someone called the cops? She moved to another window trying to get a look at whoever was at the door. Vanessa tiptoed to the back of the house. The lovely waterfall in the corner made too much noise for her to hear anything. She edged around the stone pavers onto the grass to muffle her steps. The place was all windows. She couldn’t imagine why anyone of affluence who liked privacy would live in a glass house. Don’t touch the glass, she thought. Fingerprints were damning.
She crept as low as possible, ducking behind a stainless steel barbecue grill, then a lounge chair, back to a hedge. She dropped to her hands and knees.
Through French doors, she saw a grand piano, the back of a man, and a woman who was every bit as beautiful as Halle Berry with big autumn-colored hair and the jewelry of an Egyptian goddess. The way she held her handbag said that she was a visitor. And she was looking at Benny like he was a plate of caviar. Yeah, he was lunch and this lady hadn’t consumed a complex carbohydrate since the early nineties. She was chatting him up as if he were still famous.
Benny gestured toward the kitchen doorway, but the woman didn’t take her eyes off of him. As Vanessa got a better vantage point, she looked through the viewfinder. The woman was all smiles when her huge Ferragamo bag fell to the floor. She was probably older than her open midriff let on, married, what with the two-pound boulder on her left hand. Some poor slob was probably working hard to keep his adulterous wife in high-ticket costumes. Vanessa wondered what kind of car waited in the drive. She’d have to remember to check as she left.
No sooner did Vanessa have this thought than the woman tugged Benny’s tie off in one long fluid motion. Another move and his shirt opened. Then his hands disappeared inside her tiny wraparound skirt. She had looped the tie around her neck before he relieved her of the halter that probably cost more than Vanessa’s camera. Benny reached for his attaché on a side table and produced something shiny. Vanessa jerked away from the viewfinder as if her conscience had slapped her in the face.
Uncle Benny, you bad boy.
By the time she took another look through the lens, the woman’s hands were cuffed behind her back. Benny slid the bench backward with one foot and lifted the woman up onto the piano; her knees braced on the keys, her breasts pressed against the closed top. How was he going to . . . ooh.
Vanessa ducked away to get her breathing under control. Her face was hot, and the little voice in her head scolded her for being a voyeur. She usually heeded that voice. His behavior was probably nothing compared to what the entire band was doing at the height of their popularity. Did Ursa have a bear cave for this kind of thing?
Bad girl. But you’re young and lacking in practical skills. Who better to teach you than Uncle Benny? Sleazy.
But he wasn’t her real uncle. She didn’t wrestle with her conscience long before repositioning and looking through her camera again to see the woman staring right back at her.
Vanessa’s phone rang again. The vibration caused her to start and the movement gave her away.
“The back, the back,” the woman shouted. “Ratzo!”
To continue reading chapter 2 of Ursa Rising by Sheila Englehart, you can purchase a print copy at: https://smile.amazon.com/Ursa-Rising-Sheila-Englehart/dp/1535044446/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1472926859&sr=8-1&keywords=ursa+rising
Title: Hym and Hur
Author: Phillip Frey
Format: Ebook available through Amazon and Smashwords
Pages: 29 pages
Published: 15 January 2014
Extract from ‘Hym and Hur’
A bright flash lit up the restaurant window. The waitress snapped her eyes shut, thinking it was the sun bouncing off a windshield. Blinking her eyes open, she noticed the booth alongside the window was occupied. A booth she could have sworn had just been empty, and she made her way over to it.
Hym set the breakfast menu down. “Coffee,” he said to the waitress, “and can I get a hot fudge sundae at this hour?”
“No problem,” she told him. “And for you, ma’am?”
“Hot tea,” Hur said, “and a slice of cherry pie with two scoops of vanilla ice cream.”
“Sounds great,” the waitress smiled, and she left them.
“What’ll we do today?” Hur asked Hym.
Searching for an answer, his hazel eyes filled with mischief. “How about this?” he whispered. “For twenty-four hours we give everyone in Los Angeles bad luck.”
“But most of them already have bad luck,” Hur said. “And it would be a negative. Why not give everybody good luck?”
“Not really my kind of fun,” he slouched.
In the silence that followed, each tried to come up with something.
“Breakfast time,” the waitress announced. She served the drinks and desserts, and then was off to the next booth.
Hur’s blue eyes brightened. “I got it,” she said, and it was her turn to whisper. “For a day or two, no one in Los Angeles dies.”
Hym slapped his forehead. “That is great!”
“Oh-darn,” she said. “We’ll have to get you-know-who to go along with it.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Hym said as he dug happily into his sundae. “It’ll give him a chance to shorten his list.”
Hur nodded skeptically as she took a big bite of her dessert.
Extract from ‘Hym and Hur’
Barney’s Beanery had just opened. There were only two customers at the bar. A chubby old woman sipped a beer at one end. At the other sat Death tossing back a shot of Jim Beam.
He grimaced with delight, slammed his glass down and said, “Barkeep—I’ll have another.”
Pouring the drink, the bartender eyed Death’s black coat and fedora, the pale skin and long gnarled fingers. “Perfect weather for a coat,” he cracked, “must be only about 80 out there.”
Death took hold of his fresh drink. “You’re too young to be a real barkeep,” he said. “You’re a standup comic, just trying to make ends meet.”
“Got me pegged,” said the bartender. “Which club you see me at?”
“None,” Death grinned. He downed the Jim Beam, burped and said, “I’m a real whiz when it comes to people-insight.”
The Beanery’s door opened. Hym and Hur stepped in and gazed at the far end of the bar, at Death ordering one more for the road.
Death saw them and arose tall and lanky from his stool. “It’s Hym and Hur,” he said leaning in toward the bartender. “Pair of beauties, wouldn’t you say?” Then turning toward the pair, he hollered over the distance: “Pair of troublemakers is more like it!”
The bartender said, “Hey, take it easy or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“It’s them who ought to leave,” Death said. He backed away from the bar, knocked his stool over, danced in a circle and sang out, “Pretty pair will fill your bottles with beetles and worms, and your drinkers will dance with pink ‘n’ blue pachyderms!”
The chubby old woman at the near end of the bar put her money down and left.
“Geez,” Hym said quietly to Hur, “does Death need a vacation or what?”
Death stopped dancing, pointed a long finger at them and shouted, “Secrets—dirty little secrets!”
The bouncer came over to Death and said, “You’re outta here, buddy!” He grabbed Death’s coat sleeve and yanked him toward the back exit.
Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, the bouncer let go of the sleeve, reeled and hit the floor with a hard thud.
“He’ll wake up after I leave,” Death told the fearful bartender. “Now, now,” Death said to him, “everything’s fine.” Picking his stool up off the floor, Death sat and threw back his one for the road, Hym and Hur on the approach.
“I’m feeling much better now,” Death said to the bartender. “So good in fact, I’ll have another for the road while I give these two a moment of my time, over there in that booth.”
“And for us,” Hym ordered, “two root-beer floats.”
“Heavy on the ice cream,” Hur smiled brightly.
Death stepped over the bouncer and said to the bartender, “No use in trying to use the phone. Landlines and cells have been temporarily brought down by an unusually large sun spot.”
Information about the author:
Phillip Frey has been a professional actor, independent filmmaker and produced screenwriter. He is now devoted only to writing prose. The fiction books “Dangerous Times” and “Hym and Hur” were his first published works.
As a recent contest winner, Phillip Frey’s romantic comedy, “The Hero of Lost Causes,” may be read in Scribes Valley Publishing’s annual short story anthology, “Slow the Pace.” Available in print and eBook.