CHAPTER 34
It was the first time I had ever flown, and all too obviously the first time I had experienced the other joys of an airport, especially the other passengers. I know that my home is in a prime tourist area, but this was something completely different. Our flight left mid morning, so Mrs Edwards drove us across country well before dawn, leaving us with a hug after ensuring we were properly checked-in and queuing for the security controls, and also leaving us with a collection of people who seemed to have abandoned all taste, if they had ever owned any in the first place.

Morgan gets paid, meets a new friend and takes a vacation with her.

In the foyer of Albert Sidney Johnston's Memorial Library there hangs an old oil portrait of a woman who is dressed in a black dress with a high lacy white collar. Her raven hair is gathered at the back of her head and is tied back in a nice, neat bun. Her face is set in what seems permanent scowl and her high cheekbones seemed sunk in. At the bottom of the painting one would find the name of the woman. “Mercy Anna Howard '' Followed by “Head Librarian” and beside that “1870 till 1920”.

Tuesday: Surrender to the Inevitable

I awoke again to the screech of brakes, followed closely by a mumbled and indistinct "What was that?"

Mumbled because Vonda was no more awake than I was, indistinct because my ears, accompanied by my head, were nestled in her breasts, of which there was considerable to nestle in.

Midnight, Sasha’s and Susan’s Mansion:
Angela was sitting on a floor pillow in the den while she made a database of sub-owners and dealers. She couldn’t believe how many people in the United States owned submarines. There were a few private dealers that could get old military subs.

Is There A Doctor In The House?

As much as I wanted to watch the roofing crew at work, I was getting concerned about the swelling and itching in my chest. Allergy? Some weird virus? Cancer? It's easy to psych yourself out over something like that, especially when all this other shit was happening.

It is me Dolores
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

It was a part of the swamp that I did not know well. It was well off the beaten track, and I had prepared myself even to stop and camp overnight with some gear packed into my kayak. I was aware that there were some houses which could only be accessed by water in that reach, some of them old and some more recent structures which sought the privacy of extreme isolation.

Black Cat Investigations – that’s what it says on the door to my downtown office.,

I’m Black by the way. No, I don’t mean that I’m black. Do I confuse you? What I mean is that my name is Black but I don’t have any African roots (that I know about). Actually, I’m white, almost albino white, blonde (nice wavy hair), 6’4”, 200 lbs almost purely muscles apart from the skeleton, firm chin, chiseled features, snappy dresser and so on.