You Don’t Say Weekly, Falmouth, MA: Book Review   It’s a Wavy Day on the Bounty Main It is unbelievable the author Moby Dick lives on Cape Cod. For good reason, the exact location of the writer is undisclosed. Study the cover image or read Wavy Day, and you will see the logic behind the precaution. In addition to this perfect-storm collection of pornographic, salty-sea stories, Dick has other forgettable books like Shiver Me Timbers, Brrrrr, Yo, Ho, Ho and a Bottle of Dumb, Harpoon Fever and, nobody’s favorite, Davey Jones’ Locket. Prestigious awards for his contributions to the writing[...]

     She sits alone in the loft of a coffee house called The Rookery. Concentrating on her job at hand, she is oblivious to the group of like-aged twenty-somethings opposite her, gazing at their laptops. Comfortably situated on a worn, green fabric sofa beneath two four-paned windows that provide light for her writing, the focused woman pays no attention to the gable ceiling with cedar rafters, the repurposed barn siding, or the reclaimed wood beams.      An orange thermos, a coffee cup, a plate with a half-finished donut, and a balled-up napkin rest within arm's reach on the[...]

A  ’56 pink Buick with red leather seats drove through Myra’s tissue mass. Asleep, Myra paid no attention. The Buick, who called himself Buck, left his garage on the topside of the index finger, turned left at the wrist, and headed for a reported muscle swelling. Weaving through the fascia, ducking red corpuscles, Buck smelled fumes and engine sounds. He pushed down on the accelerator. Approaching the scene, Buck saw a racetrack and guessed it might be three inches around the oval of inflammation. “Wow,” he said to no one, “ I bet you can barrel around that baby.” Rounding[...]

Embarrassment descended upon the Huff family of five. And peanut butter was the culprit. Exhausted by healthy foods, they craved the addictive paste. A slug of United States-minted gold bars couldn't stop them. No, siree. Overcome by the goober spread, their lives changed—nothing else mattered; Papa Huff quit his bank job, and Mama Huff quit the PTA. Their stubborn demeanor prevailed; it was nuts.   Weeks passed as they gorged, and the twin sisters ballooned. A thumbnail amount did not suffice. No, siree. A crock for each person. Then, OMG, it’s gone. The aisle of the Humpty Dumpty grocery store[...]

A Postcard Thread To: Miss Gulda Miller, Sunbury, Iowa, July 27, 1907 One of these days, I’m going to take a month off. I will certainly enjoy myself. Having Sunday every day and picnics galore. Say girlie, how did the examination turn out? Please, write and let me know as I am anxiously awaiting you reply concerning the result. Are you having a good time, Hilda? How is everybody? Give my love to all. A.B. (Annabelle Babcock To: Annabelle Babcock, Brainerd, Minnesota, August 3, 1907 Sister Hilda is indeed enjoying her summer vacation from Wilton German English College, up the[...]

Barry suffered the sting of subordination. He did not enjoy the devotion his friends heaved upon John and all his charm. There were times when he was humiliated by the attention they lavished on his longtime friend. There were times that the diminutive Barry wished he could sway their group to see it his way. But no. The tall extrovert, John, ruled the roost. John, John, John. It was always John. Take last Friday's dinner, for instance. John discussed ideas for food during happy hour at Jane's, “It has to be Thai food.” Again? “Great,” his adorning admirers chimed. Barry[...]