No wet blanket,
it kept her dry.
Bottle or can,
didn’t matter.
Kept her warm.
Inside.
Where it matters.
Until it didn’t
let her forget
what ailed her,
what haunted her.
Until it became
a wet blanket
and the fire inside her
died.
We're the Ezine dedicated to all things barroom. We are slightly off what others consider the norm and always the last to close the bar. If you prefer the local dive bar to the glitz of some overpriced club then you're our kind of people. So welcome grab a drink and enjoy.
No wet blanket,
it kept her dry.
Bottle or can,
didn’t matter.
Kept her warm.
Inside.
Where it matters.
Until it didn’t
let her forget
what ailed her,
what haunted her.
Until it became
a wet blanket
and the fire inside her
died.
I raised my glass to my lips and, looking up, saw Natalie watching me. She smiled slightly, briefly.
She came over and sat beside me at the bar. “I’m off work in about half an hour. Would it be OK if I joined you for a drink? Or two?”
“Of course it would be OK. Why wouldn’t it?” I teased her, wondering why now of all the time we’d known each other she would choose to sit beside me.
“May I have the house red?”
“Small or large?” asked the bartender.
“Large,” she smiled.
We clinked glasses. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
She turned on her barstool and looked directly into my eyes with her own beautiful brown, no green, eyes. “There are too many idiots around, and...” She paused briefly. “I’m very attracted to you.”
“I’m very attracted to you too. But it can’t work. I’m way too old for you.”
“How old are you?”
“Too old.”
“Age doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Natalie lay on my bed naked, her arms extended to me. “Come here,” she said.
“No, I can’t,” I replied, and shook my head with a brief smile.
I took a sip out of my glass and glanced at Natalie, who was already looking at something else.
Bill’s stories, plays, and comedy sketches have been published, produced, and/or broadcast in Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Canada, Czechia, England, Germany, Guernsey, Holland, India, Ireland, Nigeria, Singapore, South Africa, the U.S., and Wales. His stories have appeared in Fiery Scribe Review, Ariel Chart, New Contrast, Spinozablue, Helix Literary Magazine, Granfalloon, Eunoia Review, Defenestration, Pigeon Review, Yellow Mama, and many other journals. His novel, “Farewell And Goodbye, My Maltese Sleep”, was published in October 2023 by Close To The Bone Publishing.
Five years ago
I was struggling
to make ends meet,
working four part time jobs,
drinking on
a fisherman's wage.
Hoping the tides
would bring in a good haul.
Driving at 4 a.m.
Tuesdays and Thursdays
to the Kmart down south
to dry mop the whole store
with one other guy
who sadly couldn't even read
or write other than to sign checks.
I'd sweep and swab the deck
in the Little Caesar's,
dump the bucket,
walk out.
Take a nap
in my car
at the park
dreaming of
one single full time gig,
health insurance,
a full nights sleep
under a roof
that wasn’t ruled
by mice
or men.
April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.
She scowled
at Dad’s medicine.
Her curative was prayer.
Even the blood of Jesus
was made Welch’s.
No wet blanket, it kept her dry. Bottle or can, didn’t matter. Kept her warm. Inside. Where it matters. Until it didn’t let her forget what ...