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Amalgamation of Slogs
"Vrrrrrrrrr!!!!" He stepped on the gas in yet another attempt to propel the car out of the mud.  "Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."
In the author's mind, not one word of the story rang true.  Trying to decipher where the idiocy lay, he thought, "Maybe it's the 'vrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.'  It sounds like a car but it looks like a cat purring."
"Maybe adults don't use 'vrrrrrrr.'"
"ALLRIGHT, cut it out.  We're not going anywhere doing it this way.  This is a waste of time."
"You had to drive off the main road like some idiot."
"Main road sounds doltish. Interstate.  Highway."
"You have no sense of adventure.  If all mankind acted the way you do we'd all be an amalgamation of slogs."
'Sense of adventure.'  It sounds like I'm selling a 7 day, 6 night vacation deal.
"Amalgamation of slogs?!?!"
"'Amalgamation of slogs.'  I like it.  Stupid, ridiculous.  Fits well with the story."
"Yes, slogs.  Stuck in the mud is better than being a slog."
"I don't know about that. We could have been picturesquely riding down the highway."
"I don't do picturesque."
"'I don't do picturesque.'  Cute. Colloquially cute, but not at all original.  Let's see, "'I don't do fun.'  Or, 'I don't do serious.'  Or, 'I don't do . . . literature.'  Certainly don't do literature."

" . . . but don't be afraid to show yourself foolish; . . ."
  - Anton Chekhov
Somewhere Around the 3rd, 4th, or 5th Date
Bothered by his evolving affection for her, he excused himself saying "Excuse me I have to go to the bathroom." He pushed himself away from the table. 

He stood facing the hallway which would lead to the bathroom looking down at her. She sat looking up at him. 
Feeling somewhat abandoned, she quickly asked "Should I order us another?"   "Yes." , he said "that's fine."  and headed for the bathroom.  He walked down the hall leading to the bathroom, walked past the bathroom, and came to a rickety, wooden framed, screen door leading outside.  He pulled it open and stepped outside.  The air, overwhelmed by the neon and noise of the city, was uninspiring and unable to hide it's sluggishness. It was not at all refreshing.  Still he felt relieved.  Relieved to be free; free of her but, more so, free of it.


The waiter walked from the table after taking the order.  The girl looked around the bar, at it's decor, prints of abstract art, some shiny metallic bar stools, and a padded, red bulbous, vinyl affair attached to the front of the bar.  She thought it to be by definition an elbow rest although, she'd have defined it as ridiculous.  She grew upset with the uncalled for quietude of the place, but manged a smile for the gentleman seated next to their table.

A rodent, possibly a rat he thought, noisily scurried among some leaves and junk laying aside the base of the building.  He decided to return.  He buttoned, then unbuttoned his sport coat, pushed the door open, used the course, fibrous welcome mat to clean the souls of his shoes then headed back to the dining room.


Once there, he grabbed the back of his empty chair, pulling it away from the table. "How's things?" he asked, and sat.
"I ordered drinks." she said. He nodded.
There was a pause, when she interjected, "How were the bathrooms?"
His eyes moved involuntarily left, which he almost instantaneously realized. In tandem with this movement he shook his head slightly, as if he had a twitch.  It was a barely visible set of  movements but very noticeable to her.  Noticeable in the sense that she was aware of his being flustered.
"You're weird." he stated flatly.
"What do you mean?" she answered.
"I don't know.", he said.  He relaxed, having achieved a distancing from her with his brazen accusation.
Slightly saddened, she looked away;  looked at the other customers, at the decor again.  She felt the cold, metallic bar stools and the cushioned elbow rest to be less ridiculous now than before.
"I'm sorry.  I meant 'you're weird' to be affectionate not nasty."
"That's all right,  I'm sometimes weird." she lied.
"Well, you're not weird." he stated. Then added, "I can be weird myself you know."
She expressed a polite, not fabricated, half smile to accept his awkward apology.
"I think we should call it a night." he volunteered.
She agreed.
As they approached her apartment he wondered if he should mention he would like to see her again.  He was like a balloon floating in the vicinity of a needle.
If he mentioned it he might be turned down, deflating his unacknowledged hope, and be left to fend for himself.  Without the benefit of additional rationale he said, "I'll call you tomorrow."

She wanted to say, 'Whatever' but said, "Yes, that's fine."

It's a fools' game, nothing but a fools' game. . .
Bonnie Tyler, It's a Heartache, ©Universal Music Publishing Group
The Confetti Machine
The oration had drawn a large crowd.   The speaker, in the midst of his speech, continued:

"We are mankind. ",  he said loud.  He paused then remarked, "We are ONE!!!!!" 
The crowd cheered and applauded.  Confetti was let loose in the auditorium.   Some of the audience could be seen leaning into their neighbor.  "Incredible!  Just incredible!",  I imagined they remarked.   Without doubt, the people in the deli next door heard the din of the ruckus, as they had heard a similar din on previous occasions.

A young girl , wondering what the hollering was about, came in from outside and  walked into the foyer of the auditorium.  In the foyer, a security guard spotted her and approached. 

"5 dollars."  he said.

"5 dollars!"  she repeated, with a soft surprise.  "That's not a bad price is it?"

"No, no."  he reassured her.  "As a matter of fact, you're saving 10 dollars.  The speech has started so you get 10 dollars off the original 15 dollar ticket price."

Glancing away from the guard, 
She thought for a moment .  "Ok, I'll take one, . . . sure, I'm gonna take one."   The guard handed her a ticket.  She handed him 5 dollars then headed toward the auditorium.  Bits of confetti were still falling and freckled the floor of the entrance-way.   T he applause, though abated, continued.   
Outside, the deli owner stood in front of his store.  Wearing
a white smock often worn in the food service industry, he was on a smoke break.  Smoke drifted off to who knows where.  His smock was stained with smudges of one sort or another and particles of the meats he served.

If anybody has any clue why I thought this was publishable please let me know.  I haven't the faintest idea why I wrote it, let alone published it.
A Ride on the 12:15
Henry sat quietly, reading.

The train's car interior rocked slightly with the train's movement but no one seemed too bothered.  Some looked out the window, some read, others conversed.  No one seemed to give any mind to anything other than their own involvements.

Henry flipped a page of his book, "The storm was heading east." it read, "Edmund decided to call Joanne. She would need reassuring."

"May I?" said a passenger standing in the aisle, referring to the empty seat next to Henry.  The man wore what any businessman might wear; a navy blue suit, the suit coat unbuttoned, with white shirt and dark blue tie.   

"Sure, it's empty." replied Henry.

"Thank you."  The passenger took to the seat where, once seated, he pulled at his suit coat, rocked this way and that, accidentally knocked, with his arm, the head of the person sitting behind him, apologized and altogether created a typically singular bustle.  He glanced at Henry, and gave him a smile.  "The train is packed this afternoon." he said.

"Yes it is." said Henry politely.

The man returned to looking forward. He had to lift his head to see above the passenger seated in front of him then, a second later, craning his head to inspect below, he grasped a briefcase at his feet, snapped it open and pulled out a chalupa.

Henry knew what the man had between his hands.  "Drop the chalupa!" mimicked Henry.

The man chuckled, "Ha, ha, ha . . . do you mind?  I'm starving." he said.

"No, certainly not." said Henry smiling. Henry returned to his reading.
Outside, the afternoon was brightly sunny.  The landscape, which was plain but not void of beauty, seemed to zoom by. Occasionally, an industrial complex or housing site breached the plainness of the landscape.
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