A.G.E's Joint

[The scene is a trailer park. The units are older, but in good repair. Children play tag in the dead end road. A pudgy woman with a mass of salt and pepper curls is holding court on the wooden stoop outside her home. Clothed in a T-Shirt and faded jeans, it’s obvious she has been drinking for a while] “My name is Krystle Gayle Tomley, but my friends call me Miss Piggy. I’m 46 years old, a mother, grandmother and soon to be great-grandmother. They say I’m the third generation Tomley here at the trailer park. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you know my story" [Lighting a cigarette, she coughs briefly and continues] “How we Tomley’s got here was Granddaddy come down from Villanow to work in the bomber plant just after he got back from Korea. But he wasn’t the first Tomley. That’d be Uncle Rufus. That’s his picture there on the table, the man on the motorcycle. He’s probably more like me than any of my direct kin. He came equipped with a wild streak

He wasn’t that talented. He said so himself. A third rate guitar player with a knack for lyrics and the ability to transport an audience into a new world. You could tell he was happiest on stage, watching the faces rise and fall with the tenor of his scratchy voice. We laughed along with the easy banter of the band. Whether it was the prairie scenes of “Mail Order Annie” or the mind at the edge of adultery in “Halfway to Heaven”, you could forget your own foibles for a while and have sympathy for the protagonists. An experience that when it ended, you always came in with a smooth landing. I was in my office balancing a store inventory when the news that Harry had died came over the radio. It felt like a door slamming closed on a significant part of my life. I met him at an after party at the Fox Theater in March 1978, where he invited the attendees to participate in a World Hunger Year event that was coming up. I did and it started a long association with homeless servic

I thought I would join in this week. This is a project of  Jolene Naylor , and gives the reader a chance to see works in progress. This one is from a three part serial story I wrote several years ago, Streetlights . I am the process of consolidating the parts into a single piece. Damn, the cramps were starting again. Kari hated driving with them.   As the muscles tightened, it reminded her of her boss. “Charlie Cramps”. A fitting nickname, she thought.   Only he was messy and a pain 24/7, not just once a month and a tampon in the mouth didn’t shut him up.    If you want to join in, put your link in the comments below. If you have editorial comments, those are welcomed, too. 

  "Why do the Heathen rage? And the people imagine a vain thing?" The above is Psalm 2:1, for those of you who are not familiar. It seems to be appropriate for today's world. All sides appear to be heading for a collision, each side vainly thinking theirs is the only true and right way. Some using outright violence, others implied fear. The rest of us sheep stuck in the middle hoping not to get caught in the crossfire. Let us pray. EDIT: After I posted this, I found this little gem. Ann Coulter Interview Mind you, it is third party edited hearsay. But it really does illustrate both the rage and the vanity of the political class. Pharisees...all of them.

      The bandstand was deserted hours ago and almost everyone else had gone home. A red, white and blue neon sign screamed BBQ, Babes and Beer! The screens above the bar were silently running the day’s latest tragedies. But Jack wasn’t having any of that. That all smacked of celebration. This was a vodka and depression kind of night. A wave brought the bottle and the glass was emptied and slammed back as soon as it filled.    “Damn, man. You hardly let me pull up.”   With a sigh, the glass was filled again.   “But this is your last one. Got it?”   “Sssurre.” Came the slurred reply. Using the edge of the bar for balance, Jack slowly stood up. Picking up the glass, he stumbled over to the jukebox. A dollar in the slot brought solace.   The bars are all closed…It’s four in the morning and I must have shut them all down…   He had enough. Or could he really get enough? Damn woman took off out a word, changed her phone number. All because of some argument