Moscow Mule -Original Short Story 

My mental clarity wavers often. I allude to nothing.
“Hey, Marty! You want another Moscow Mule?” Sloan asked me. Her cleavage shimmered under the light.

“No thanks. What I would like is a date with you, sweet thing.” I replied.

“Oh please!” You wouldn’t even know what to do with me, Marty!”

Sloan wiped clean the table next to mine. She winked at me while doing it. She always winked at customers.
“I’m pretty sure I can think of a couple things to do with you.” I chewed on a breadstick and pretended to be interested in the basketball game on T.V. 
“You’re so nasty, Marty!”

Sloan smiled then walked back towards the bar.
Interesting thoughts invaded my consciousness. I tried to think of something else but found it difficult.

The memory of my pet turtle, Spartacus, flashed before me for some reason. I was eight years old when he ran away to join the circus. 

He didn’t really join the circus. That’s just what I told myself to cheer myself up. Though, he was a pretty clever turtle. 
“Hey, buddy!” You don’t wanna’ mess with Sloan. She’s a wild succubus.” An overweight bearded guy commented from the booth behind me.

“Oh really? I figured as much. I’m not looking for anything serious.” I replied then bit into a lime wedge.
A group of inebriated basketball fans cheered loudly at the sight of their team winning.
“Today’s your lucky day, Marty! My shift just ended. So, what do you say we go back to my place?” Sloan grabbed my hand and gently squeezed.

“If we must, we must.” I slapped her buttocks as we walked out into the parking lot.
My mental clarity wavered again. I then awoke from my alcohol induced fantasy. That was the last time I had a Moscow Mule.


Moon Landing 

Sometimes it all hurts but makes sense. Sometimes it captures my soul and tosses it around like a wounded sock puppet amidst a violent wash cycle. Nonsense is my bread and butter. Now and forever more. But beyond it all is a shiny facade. Something akin to a shiny new nickel. A nickel. I wish I lived in the era when a nickel was considered to be a hell of a lot of money. Hell, I wish I lived in an era when one dollar went further than any moon landing. Hope? Wishes? Yes, these are things I desire. These are things I know we all desire. Desires are fickle bastards! Just when you think you’ve done away with them more are born and begin to eat away at your mind.


If I were to truly abandon society… would I miss it? Would it miss me? I suppose it wouldn’t really matter; even if I tried to make it matter. I can hear solitude calling out to me on a daily basis. Maybe I’m hearing things but maybe not. Maybe I analyze too much but maybe not. My countenance is mine and no one else’s. 


I tell nothing that hasn’t been told before by many. I write nothing that hasn’t been written before by many. I suppose I could be called one of the few who chooses not to hide behind metaphors and parables. Most would consider this to be a grave problem or disease. But I do not; not at all.


For instance, the other day I was making myself a ham sandwich and became mesmerized by the amount of visible grains in the bread. It was supposed to be one of those “heart smart” loaves of which I believe aren’t as smart as they would have us believe. I mean… grain in bread! Who would have thought we’d see the day? 


Don’t even get me started on all the lean meats being pushed in the stores these days. 
 What I write here I write it for a specific purpose. A “goal” if you will. Smell it. Taste it. Otherwise someone else will grab it up. My heart and brain is a jumble. You’d think they know enough to know that they must be connected and intertwined with one another but alas they do not. 


One cosmically ordered scenario cannot and should not take precedence over another. Though, it is quite difficult to imagine this. Because it is inescapable. 


I wonder how much longer it will be until we finally colonize the Moon. Or have we already?

My Sandwich -Original Short Short Story 

  He ate my sandwich! Bob ate my wonderful sandwich!

  My turkey, cheese, bacon, tomato, lettuce on rye sandwich! How could Bob do such a thing? Does he not know how many hours I spent making my sandwich?

  Well, maybe not hours but minutes. Several glorious minutes!

  I even drove all the way across town to get the good turkey from the good deli. Doesn’t Bob know this?

  How could you, Bob! How could you eat my sandwich! Why did you eat it?

  Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from eating other peoples’ sandwiches? Huh!! Do you?

  I recall a time when you wanted to make a sandwich of your own but did not have any bread. You asked to borrow a few slices of bread and I was agreeable. In addition, I also gave you $5 so that you may purchase a loaf of your choosing.

  That was not too long ago. Did you purchase your own loaf? No! You spent that $5 on beer. And when you got back home you didn’t even offer me a beer!

  Oh how I loathe you, Bob!

  It is no wonder you are a solitary man. But I digress.

  Why the hell did you eat my sandwich? Was there something about it that called out to you? Hmmm? 

  Did the sandwich itself speak to you? Did it speak to you in French or Spanish?

  If you are having conversations with talking sandwiches regularly then perhaps you should see a psychiatrist.

  But even that is no excuse for eating my lovely sandwich!

  Why! Why did you eat it?

  I’ve been nothing but kind to you these past few months. I have no qualms with our living arrangement. 

  And I only slept with your wife once! Only once!


  Why did you eat my sandwich?