Brothers Ben attempted a smile as Joe waved him into the room with a hand borrowed from a corpse. Joe’s daily quart of mouthwash had dissolved his liver. He had learned about the mouthwash trick at an AA meeting years ago. Mouthwash delivered a kick and hid the smell of alcohol. Joe switched to mouthwash after promising Mary that he had stopped drinking. She knew he hadn't, but years of arguing had left her silent. Ben knew, but like Mary had run out of words to fight Joe’s lies. What did he think? That they didn't know about the dozens of mouthwash bottles hidden under the porch? That they didn't see the shadow passing under the streetlamp, carrying sacks of empties to hide in the car trunk? That they didn't notice his thickening, yellowing skin? That they couldn’t smell the rot on his breath? They could only watch as he wrote, directed, and starred in his play of death. They suggested edits – stop drinking, stop lying about drinking. But Ben and Mary were mere
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DAVID YOUNG David Young is a friend of mine. He is a hero and an uncommon genius. David lived in foster care until he was 7 and then in mental institutions for 20 years - misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic. With this background, most of us would have given up on life. Not David. He became an expert in myrmecology, the scientific study of ants, as well as developing an in-depth knowledge of many other insects such as bees and wasps. He also taught himself micro-photography. His photographs are things of beauty. He transforms things like a bee's stomach or a wasp's venom gland into visual jewels. The following are some of his most recent works. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. Please credit David Young if you use any of them, and let me know at justdale777@gmail.com, so I can get word to David. He will be thrilled. Bee's Stomach Bee's Trachea #1 Bee's Trachea #2 Wasp Venom Gland #1 Wasp Venom Gland #2 Wasp Stinger Snail Shell Snail Shell Closeup
Acie Yellowed fingers clutch Acie's cigarette. 70ish. Her pin curled hair is spun silver. Blowing a cloud of smoke, she laughs, leans back, and starts her tale. First time I saw Bill Keel, I was done. So tall he had to duck through doors, hair black as a crow's wing, and thin as a sapling. Oh my, my, my. Bill was 20 and me 16 when we traded rings at Rowell Baptist. Bill loved to go cut loose at cousin Jesse's Honky Tonk. I never liked liquor. But where Bill went, I went. We'd dance real slow to The Last Date, by Floyd Cramer. Bill would dance with me and every other gal until, drenched in other girl's perfume, he'd stagger over, and lay his head in my lap. I would help him into the pickup and drive us home. Next morning, I would cook bacon and hum to myself. When he woke, Bill would sneak up behind me, spin me 'round, lift me in the air and say, "I'm sorry honey. I won't never get that drunk ever again." Course it was a lie. W