I received this from one of the editors of Literally Stories:
I am very pleased to inform you that your short story, The Last First Friday, will be published on Literally Stories in the near future.
We will inform you closer the time of the date of publication.
If you wish to have an Author CV page on the site, please send us a biography (maximum 200 words).
Adam West on behalf of Literally Stories
I will certainly keep you informed when publication happens.
More fun as I make my way through the book editing.
Bob tossed his empty coffee cup at Rick and almost sprinted to the door. “Let’s go champ!” He called over his shoulder as he went.
Nick picked up his pace and followed Bob out.
“Hey” Bob called “haven’t forgotten about T. J. have you?” He moved quickly toward his BMW.
“Who?” Then is occurred to Nick “Don’t do it Bob! T. J. Hooker was the 80’s too!”
He was too late. Bob left his feet in a leap and landed squarely on the hood of the black car. However unlike T. J., or the Duke boys, or a hundred other television characters, Bob did not slide. He did scramble a bit on the hood of the car until he caught hold of a windshield wiper and held steady. He looked back at Nick helplessly through his dark glasses.
Nick approached slowly, smiling as he went. “Nice T. J. Or is it Luke? Isn’t the idea to slide off the other side then jump in the car and fire it up?”
“Shut up and give me a hand.” Bob said.
“You talkin to me T. J.?” Nick did his best Robert DeNiro. “You talkin to me?”
“Yeah, yeah. This is real funny for you isn’t it?” Bob held out a hand for help. “Give me a hand before I fall off here and bust my butt. We can’t afford that, we have a new job.”
Nick helped him. “Looks like you already busted your butt.” Then he started laughing as he looked at the hood of the car “Actually it looks like it is your butt that busted the car.”
Bob looked around “Oh, crappage!” He stared forlornly at the enormous dent in the hood of the car.
“You need to lay off the coffee and doughnuts there Lukey Duke.” Nick mused as he got in the passenger side.
“This ain’t funny. Look at my car.” Bob lamented.
“Oh, you mean that big butt print there on the hood?”
“Cute. That could cost me a grand easy. Good thing I have insurance.” Bob said.
“Does State Farm cover butt marks in their policy?” Nick asked as they pulled out of the lot and headed for downtown.
“Always with the funny, aren’t you?” Bob mumbled.
An interchange between the two main characters. They do a fair amount of this kind of thing while they investigate cases.
“More useful suggestions. This is great. Why do I need a partner anyway. I could go talk to my old Jewish uncle Murray and get as much help.” Nick said as they stepped off the elevator.
“You have a Jewish uncle? I thought you were all Italians.” Bob said.
“Married in. But he can yell like the rest of us.”
“That’s always a plus.”
He was brown and would only get more so. His hair would bleach and his skin would get as dark as Caucasian would allow and White Nigger was her name for him. She, Kimberly, his mother, called him White Nigger more than she called him by name. It was her drunken amusement and her drunken friends drunken amusement and whatever drunken boyfriends drunken amusement. He hated White Nigger and knew better than to say so. You never told her anything she didn’t want to hear. His father would be ready to fight if he knew, and telling him would start a major incident. Then, finally it wouldn’t be about him or White Nigger after all, then, at the end of the day it would be Roger alone and his mother. And she would win. She always won.
by Donald Baker
“It’s gone out” she said
Wistfully, strayed a look his direction
His thick thumb flicked again and again
“Not getting a spark” He snapped
She dismissed him
“Maybe someone else can”
Turned from the opulent table
looked at the whisper of sunset on lake
finely rippled glass, rose to the distant shadowed tree-line.
“So beautiful” She breathed
“I can get them to bring another.”
He gave up.
Slapped the lighter down.
She reflected on the end of day,
and thought of the children
He stared at rough, war torn hands,
and thought of work
The wax of the lifeless candle cooled and hardened.