Speakeasy #146: Words Last

“My perspicacious perspective apprises me of your disapprobation at my dialectical preferences, Lacey.”

I sigh and glare at Shane. He looks exactly like you’d expect someone who said the previous sentence would: bowl-cut brown hair, thick rubber glasses complete with tape around the bridge, and a pocket protector with enough pens to outfit the proverbial infinite monkeys with enough writing implements to create Shakespeare.

“Huh?” I reply. They say brevity is the soul of wit.

They suck ’cause I don’t feel witty at all.

The stereotype displays the shit-eating grin that makes me wonder why I don’t let the wind from a soft whistle blow his ass down the block. “Are you cognizant of the intelligence that ‘huh’ prevails within virtually all the terrene vocabularies?”

“If you don’t want a girl to beat you up then I suggest you talk like a normal person.” I’m counting the blocks until we reach our street. We’re neighbors, and our moms are besties for life. I’ve let my mom know in no uncertain terms that she’ll disappear if certain photos of me and Shane taking a bath together as toddlers should ever surface.

“Pugilistic inclinations aside, shall you and the matriarch of your clan deign to grace us with your effervescent quintessence?”

Five, four, three, two, aaaannnd here comes the inhaler. Thorn Street, three blocks from school and two blocks until home. He’s like clockwork. A sad, wheezing clock that sounds like it’s on its last legs, but still he manages to sound cuckoo. “I have too much homework to come over tonight. Or any other night.”

Shane studies his shoes. He mutters something I think sounds like, “Don’t be like that, Lace.” For all I know it could have been, “Shut your stupid face.”

I honestly hope it’s the second one, but history leans toward the first. I remember him being more fun when we were younger. We’d play soccer, baseball, hide and seek, and bake mud-pies in pretend ovens.

Then his dickhead sperm-donor took off when we were in second grade, and Shane changed. I’d come over and he’d be buried in books. Comic, paperback, old, new, thesauruses, it didn’t matter. I should feel bad for him, but it’s been years.

He really needs to move on.

“Don’t pout, Shane. It demeans us both.” A red Camaro cruises past, and I wave at the driver, Allen Tomas. He glances at me. He glances at Shane. Then he bursts out laughing and zooms off.

My face burns with embarrassment.

My pace quickens, and Shane scurries after me. I can feel him pushing those ridiculous glasses up as sweat starts to slick his nose.

I break into a run, tired of his pathetic hanging around my neck. His gasps follow me, and he manages to make it to the front of my house without collapsing. “Well, that invigorating constitutional-“

“Shut-UP! God! Do you even know what you sound like? Why do you have to talk like that?” The words tumble out, and I try to grab them. The bastards slip through my fingers. “Do you know why nobody likes you? It’s because you sound like an asshole who thinks big words make him a big person.”

“No wonder your dad left.”

Oh, Jesus. Did I really just say that? I couldn’t get the hurt in his eyes from that one statement if I slapped him a thousand times while burning his books.

“Remember when he left?” His voice, empty of anything Shane, lashes me.

“I’m so sorry-” His lips press so hard they turn white. “When we got our mid-term report cards.”

“I was failing English.” His fists ball. “My…Dad saw my grade, and I saw the disappointment in his eyes. He muttered something about wishing I was smarter.”

“He left that night.”

God, please…make this stop. Send me to Hell, and I’ll go with a smile if you just make him forget my stupidity.

He keeps looking at me with those betrayed eyes. “I thought he left because I wasn’t smart enough.” He trudges past me and I can only watch. “I always hoped if I became smart enough, he might come back. Stupid, I know. But still…”

I manage to break free of my idiot’s paralysis. “I’m sorry, Shane! Listen, come over. We’ll do whatever you want. Please!”

He doesn’t say a word as he goes inside. “Goddamn his dad…”

I slump down on my steps. “…and Goddamn me too.”

I sat there and waited, but he never came back.

Word Count: 750

Speakeasy #146. The prompts: “I sat there and waited, but he never came back.” To be used as the last line. There is also a video prompt:

The rules:

  • Your post must be dated January 26, 2013, or later.
  • Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
  • Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
  • Your piece must include the following sentence as the LAST line: “I sat there and waited, but he never came back.
  • The Speakeasy is for submissions written specifically for the grid. Please don’t submit an entry if you intend to showcase it to another blog link-up. Such posts are deleted without notice, there’s no refund for your ticket.
  • Please don’t post long explanations before your post. We want your writing to be the star of the show. If you need to clarify anything, feel free to do so at the end.
  • The badge for your speakeasy #146 post is found in the sidebar. Add the code to the html view of your post before publishing.

Speakeasy #144: Moving On

“Why do you do this to yourself every year?” The voice, roughened from years of chain-smoking, blared through the receiver. “I’m not gonna to tell you what you want to hear.”

Luke stared at the scrawny man wearing an orange jumpsuit tied at the waist, wife-beater covering his lack of chest. A black spider-web spun from the neck down to the shoulder, its creator dangling down on what a generous person would call a bicep. “New tattoo, I see, Jerry.”

Jerry sneered through the partition separating them. “You want to waste your time with small talk? Fine.” The sneer turned to leer. “How’s your sister? Ooops, that’s right…she’s dead.”

Casey walks to the subway after her shift at the restaurant, tired, but happy at the tips for the evening. Every little bit helps in her quest for a new car to match her shiny new license. A pair of feral eyes watches her…stalks her, waiting for the right moment to pounce. “Give me your cash, bitch.”

Her eyes widen at the glint of metal in the dim street-light, and she realizes how alone she is at the moment. She hands over her earnings with shaky hands, her twinkling eyes dulled by terror. The monster, undaunted by her cooperation, slashes. Crimson flies as she slumps, her body pulling her death along to jut from her breast. Coward’s steps echo as Jerry strides away, counting the stained bills in his hand.

Luke shook off the scenario he’d constructed and replayed thousands of times since that night. Lips quirked into the approximation of a smile. “Nice try, Jerry.” He leaned back, stretching out the cord of the phone attached to the side panel. “In the past, that might have been enough to make me storm out of here.”

“Guess you finally grew a pair, huh?” Jerry chuckled, a dry wheeze that turned into a wracking cough.

Luke waited, sure more was coming. Jerry didn’t disappoint. The murderer put his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon. “Oh, my sister! Why? Why did you do it? Just tell me and I’ll leave you alone forever! Please!” His face screwed up as if he were crying, whimpering sounds finishing the performance.

“Luke, you’re giving this bastard too much power over you.” Hurt traces a gleaming path down Sylvia’s cheek. “It’s been ten years! You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Some things can’t be forgotten.” The words sound hollow, even to him. He thinks of all the nights spent wondering, the difficulties in connecting, and the patience of his girlfriend as she soothes him when the nightmares strike.

“No they can’t, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be accepted.” His eyes flare and she strokes his cheek. “Can you even think of Casey anymore without his face there? Do you really want him forever tied to your memory of her? Don’t let that night take two lives away.”

“Don’t let it take our life together away,” she whispers.

Luke stood to leave. “I didn’t come here today to spar with you again, Jerry. I came to tell you, I’m done. You did it, and I accept that you won’t ever tell me why. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a pathetic loser not man enough to own up to your actions.”

“Hey! You can’t talk-”

“Shut up. You’re powerless, and I’m through with you.” Luke hung up the phone, ignoring the panic in Jerry’s eyes. Silent “Wait! I’ll tell you, don’t go!” bounced off the sound-proof glass in futile fury as Luke walked away.

“Luke!” Casey bounces into his room, hands behind her back and grinning so wide it looks painful. “Guess what I got?” she sings.

“A present for the awesomest big brother ever?” he says in the same sing-song voice.

Little sister annoyance flickers across her features, but the smile takes back over. “No, doofus.” She pulls out a piece of small rectangular plastic with her picture on it. “I got my license!” she squeals.

He shakes his head in mock dismay. “Oh, God. Time to warn the neighbors.”

She punches his arm. “Stupid.” Her arms wrap around him and she pecks his cheek. “Thanks for teaching me.”

“My pleasure.” He chucks her under the chin. “You’ll do great.” Her grin warms as she floats out of the room. “Just watch out for mailboxes!” 

“That was one time!”

The stars glittered like diamonds against a black velvet sky on the drive home. They reminded Luke of Casey’s eyes.

“Love you, sis.”

Word Count: 750

Speakeasy #144. The prompts this week: “Some things can’t be forgotten” and the video below:



  • Your post must be dated January 12, 2013, or later.
  • Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
  • Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
  • Your piece must include the following sentence ANYWHERE (except as the title): “Some things can’t be forgotten.”
  • The Speakeasy is for submissions written specifically for the grid. Please don’t submit an entry if you intend to showcase it to another blog link-up. Such posts are deleted without notice.
  • Please don’t post long explanations before your post. We want your writing to be the star of the show. If you need to clarify anything, feel free to do so at the end.
  • The badge for your speakeasy #144 post is found in the sidebar. Add the code to the html view of your post before publishing.

Head over and read some great writers take on the prompts. Join in as the challenge is open to anyone!

Hope you enjoy.

Happy Reading and Writing!

J. Milburn

Speakeasy #143: Heroes


There was a loud crash in the hallway. “Go check out that noise, Miss Might,” Captain Glory ordered.

Miss Might strode out into Wonder-Base’s cavernous hall. Her eyes narrowed as a flash of pink and purple crossed her vision. “It’s Dis-Maid! She’s stolen the plans for Dr. Ornery’s Destructo-satellite!” Pounding footsteps echoed as she thumped after the intruder.

Captain Glory turned to his trusted lieutenant, Speed-Demon. “Get after her.”

Onitbossman.” SD sped off, leaving only an after-image. Captain Glory rose into the air, flying out of the room to join the chase. He navigated the twist and turns of Wonder-Base with practiced ease, halting as he came upon SD helping Miss Might to her feet. “What happened?”

Miss Might shook her head in anger. “Dis-Maid threw some kind of force-field at me, stopping me in my tracks.” She rubbed her forehead. “Kind of hurt. She made it outside.”

Captain Glory frowned and he stepped to the force-field, pounding on it as hard as he could. “No help for it, we have to go around.”

The trio raced for the back exit, which let out at the bank of river. SD ran over the top of the water, his speed so great he wouldn’t fall in. Captain Glory grabbed Miss Might by the arms and yanked her into the air, flying to join Speed-Demon on the other side. Once reassembled, Captain Glory took charge. “She’s probably hiding in her secret lair.”

He grinned, and his teammates echoed it. “Luckily for us, it’s not that secret. Here’s what we’re going to do.” The three of them huddled close together.


An old warehouse served as Dis-Maid’s hideout. Guards, unaware of whom they worked for, patrolled the grounds. Miss Might, in her secret identity as a detective for the Future City Police, strolled to the gatehouse. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You can’t come in here,” the guard manning the post said.

Miss Might pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. “This is a warrant allowing me to search the area.” She fought down her smile as the guard looked at the gobbledygook of legalese with confusion. “Tell no one I’m here. This might be the scene of a crime.”

The guard looked alarmed, but pressed the button to open the gate. Miss Might nodded at him and strode off into the compound.

A slight breeze told her Speed-Demon took advantage of the opening to zoom through the gate. He waved to her from behind an old pile of boxes. “TookyourtimeIsee,MM.

She rolled her eyes. “If you can wait for a moment, I’ll change.” She twirled around in place, her civilian clothes magically changing into her uniform. “Ah. That’s better. Where’s Glory?”

SD pointed up to the roof. She craned her neck up to see Captain Glory sneaking across the slanted rooftop to a window nearby. “That wasn’t part of the plan,” she hissed. “He’ll get us all killed!”

Speed-Demon shrugged. “He’sthebossman.Hisplanhisrules.

She watched as Captain Glory eased open the bottom pane, wincing when he yelled, “Aha! We have you now, vile fiend!”

“Billy, Freddie, Mary, CeCe, time for din- Billy Eugene Watson, you get down from there this instant!”

“Aw, Mom, we’re trying to save the world!”

Billy’s mother crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “You’re trying to break you neck. Quit being ornery. Get. Down. Now!”

Billy scampered into the window, the cry of, “MOOOM! Billy’s in my room!”, taking his place.

Mrs. Watson sighed and glanced at Freddie and Mary, who fidgeted and tried to look innocent next to the backyard shed. Her eyes widened when she saw Freddie’s pant legs. “Frederick, did you jump into the puddle?”

“No, Mrs. Watson. I ran across it.”

“Well, aren’t you just the little speed demon?” Mary tried to turn and rub her forehead, but Mrs. Watson caught the movement. “Mary, are you hurting?”

“I might.”

“Well, miss might, do you or don’t you?” Mrs. Watson motioned her closer and gasped. “What’s that?”

“A bruise from when I ran into CeCe’s door,” she mumbled.

“Is that all the banging I heard?”

“No. That was Cap…I mean Billy trying to get through the force-field.”

Billy peeked his head around his mother’s back, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. His mouth moved along with Mom’s words. “I am very dismayed right now. It’s a wonder you three don’t destroy this house.” Mrs. Watson shook her head. “Glory be, you kids will be the end of me.”

Billy, Mary, and Freddie burst out laughing.

Word Count: 750

Speakeasy #143. This week’s prompts: The photo above, to be referenced in some way within the story, and the sentence, “There was a loud crash in the hallway.” The sentence prompt must be used as the First line of the story or poem.


And here are the rules:

  • Your post must be dated January 5, 2013, or later.
  • Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
  • Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
  • Your piece must include the following sentence as the FIRST line: “There was a loud crash in the hallway.”
  • The Speakeasy is for submissions written specifically for the grid. Please don’t submit an entry if you intend to showcase it to another blog link-up. Such posts are deleted without notice.
  • Please don’t post long explanations before your post. We want your writing to be the star of the show. If you need to clarify anything, feel free to do so at the end.
  • The badge for your speakeasy #143 post is found in the sidebar. Add the code to the html view of your post before publishing.

Don’t forget to come back on Tuesday and add your link to the Inlinkz grid!

Head over to Speakeasy and read some great writers. Feel free to join in the fun with your own piece!

Since I’m still in a musical mood, I’ll leave you with this:

*Note* Idea credit: My little boy, without whom I would have stared at these prompts blankly and probably missed this week!

Hope you enjoy.

Happy Reading and Writing!

J. Milburn

Speakeasy #142: Interpretations

Big Ben UK

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Yeshasvi whispered.

“Oh, well. I’m going to do it anyway.”

Jack stalked the cold streets of London, hands dug into the pockets of his frock coat. The tools of his trade, hanging from the leather apron hidden underneath his bend, clinked as he strode the lit walk. The noise caused coves and haybags to glance his direction, but the beauty of the moon and the weight of their own cares pulled their attention away from him.

He espied a ladybird flouncing her wares to all and sundry. He admired her nancy-sway, and pulled down the brim of his top hat as she chatted up a crusher on the corner. The judy undoubtedly made plans to dab it up with the copper. Jack believed she was just a dollymop, but maybe the rozzer was her abbot.

A feral grin distorted Jack’s features as the tail scampered off with a wave.

“Wait, wait, wait! Ladybird? Nancy-sway? Dollymop? What are these words?” Miss Anja demanded.

“I have a translation at the end, Miss Anja. Just be patient.”

“Jay…” she said in her warning tone. She sighed at his innocent expression. “Continue.”

Jack scurried after his pidgeon flying the coop, ducking his head as he passed the miltonian. He needn’t have bothered as the pig stared through him, no hint of alarm aside from a slight shiver.

The mark strolled her merry way to The Chapel, his old hunting grounds. He passed sharps taking muck snipes for their last mag, while mumpers on the blob wrangled a fadge from grasping fists as Nox deepened her sway over London.


“Yes, Miss Anja?”

“Nothing,” she said, cradling her forehead in her palm. “Carry on.”

London Particular rolled in, further obscuring him from the toffer. Thoughts of her Miss Laycock made his Nebuchadnezzar fight the constraining kecks. He wouldn’t put him out to grass, that wasn’t his way, but he would satisfy the old king.


“Yes, ma’am?”

“Did that mean what I think it meant?”

“Well, tell me what you think it meant and I’ll tell you.”

Miss Anja opened her lips, but the expectant looks of a full classroom stopped her. “After class.”

“May I continue?”

“Yes.” She shook her head and muttered, “Why did I ever become a teacher?”

The nemmo ducked into an alleyway, confused by the pea soup. Jack kept a weather eye out for mug-hunters and stepped to the alley mouth. He heard a Prater squall, “The End Is Nigh!”, behind him. Appropriate.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jack whirled at the voice. A tall, lean man appeared from the white-bank. “Spring-Heel, what are you doing here?”

Spring-Heel nodded in the direction of the alley. “Them nobblers from America is waitin’ on you. They’s right punishers, those Yanks.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed as his hand tightened on his Neddy. “I’m not afraid of some rampers from the colonies.”

A voice yelled from down the alley, “And we ain’t afraid of no ghosts!”

“Oh, God!” Miss Anja moaned.

“What now?”

She glared at her recalcitrant student. “You know what! Ghostbusters? Seriously?”

“It fits the milieu.”

Miss Anja threw up her hands. “Just finish, if only because I can’t believe you know the word ‘milieu.'”

Four varicolored beams lit the alley in oranges and purples. Jack and Spring-Heel screamed as the energy streams pierced their incorporeal forms, dragging them to a small box. One of the men, with tall hair and glasses, stepped on a pad and the top opened up, light pouring forth and blinding the two specters.

Jack felt his essence distend as he warped and twisted into the trap. A rotten egg smell caused the four men and their decoy to gag a little bit. The man with frizzy black hair looked at the woman they hired to play bait. “So, how much?”

“I think that’s enough!” Miss Anja held out her hand. “Paper, please.”

Jay shuffled forward, inching the paper out. Miss Anja read the list of translations, eyebrow arching as she went along. “To the principal’s office, young man. We’re calling your parents.”

“Awww! Why? I did the assignment!”

“The assignment was to write a scene from a play in the style of Shakespeare!”

“Murder, ghosts…sounds pretty Shakespearean to me.”

“Go!” She pointed to the door.

“So, I guess I don’t get any pudding?”


“You know…the song?”

“Yes, you don’t get any pudding if you don’t eat your meat…” A titter roiled through the class.

Jay snickered and left.

Word Count: 750

Speakeasy #142. This week’s prompts: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” To be used anywhere in the story. There is also a photo prompt, which can be seen at the top of the post. The challenge: Use 750 words or less to tell a story incorporating those elements in some way.

I was going to go dark, but decided to lighten it up a bit. As promised, Miss Anja, here are the translations 😀 Please don’t give me detention (I mean, I didn’t kill you off 😉 )!

I believe this is the site Jay used (ahem) when he wrote his story: Victorian Slang Glossary

Cove: man

Haybag: woman

bend: waistcoat, vest

ladybird: a prostitute

nancy: buttocks (so nancy-sway is…you get the picture)

crusher: policeman

judy: a woman, specifically a prostitute

dab: to bed (dab it up with ____ means sexual intercourse)

Copper: a policeman

dollymop: a prostitute, often an amateur or part-time street girl; a midinette.

Rozzer(s): policmen

abbot: the husband, or preferred man of an Abbess (a woman who runs a brothel. A Madame.)

tail: prostitute (I really should have grouped these together 😉 )

pidgeon: victim

Miltonian: policeman

pig: survives to this day…you know this one

The Chapel: Whitechapel

sharps: card swindlers

muck snipes: people who are “down and out”

Mag: Ha’pence

mumpers: begger or scrounger

on the blob: begging by telling hard-luck stories

fadge: farthing

London Particular: London “pea soup” fog

toffer: a superior prostitute

Miss Laycock: female sexual organs

Nebuchadnezzar (out to grass): male sexual organs; to put out to grass = engage in sexual intercourse

kecks: trousers

nemmo: woman

mug-hunters: a street-robber or footpad. Hence the modern “Mugger”

Prater: a bogus itinerate preacher

nobblers: (1) One who inflicts grevious bodily harm.  (2) A sharper’s confederate

punishers: Superior nobblers.  Men employed to give severe beatings

Neddy: cosh

rampers: a tearaway or hoodlum.

Head over to Speakeasy on Sundays for the prompts and Tuesday through Thursday for some great writers who participate in this challenge.

Hope you enjoy.

Happy Reading and Writing!

J. Milburn

Speakeasy #141: Wishes and Promises

Tracy revved the engine of her Softail, weaving around cars to shake the double cherries chasing her. “Wheeeee!” came from the small passenger holding her waist.

Lips peeled back in a grim smile. Surprised faces whipped past, traffic not so heavy she couldn’t maneuver, but heavy enough to slow the cops.

Not far ahead, a Lexus swerved, cutting off a semi hauling a large tank. Brakes squealed as the rig cut sharply across the lanes. Her eyes widened. “Hang on!”

She threw the bike in a skid, ducking her head to squeeze under the tanker truck. She hit the throttle, and the world went wobbly before finally straightening. “Holy…I thought that only worked in movies!”

“Can we do it again?”



Tracy chuckled as she pulled off the interstate to get lost among the myriad routes to their destination.


“Here.” Tracy handed Cynthia a bowl of stew. “You need to eat.”

Cynthia pouted, but took the bowl. “Do you think we’ll make it?”

Tracy groaned as she spooned a mouthful of meat. “We’ll make it, kid. I promised, didn’t I?” She sighed as Cynthia just picked at her food. “If you’re not going to eat, then get some sleep; you need your strength.” She unrolled a sleeping bag and lay it close to the fire.

Cynthia crawled in and closed her eyes. Tracy took two more bites of stew before, “Mommy and Daddy will be there, won’t they?”

Tracy smiled. “I’ll make sure of it. Sleep.”


A rumble of motorcycle engines to put Sturgis to shame woke her. She bolted up, and shook Cynthia awake, holding a finger to her lips. They padded over to her Softail, and she pushed it out of their hiding spot.

“Hey!” A large, bearded man with arms sleeved in tattoos sitting astride a Road King, roared up next to them. “You the ones on the news?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tracy glanced down at the helmet on the back of the bike, ready to use it as a weapon.

Pearly whites flashed through the chin-foliage. “Don’t worry! Me and the boys heard about what you’re doing. We called a few friends, who called a few friends…you know how it goes.” He stuck out a meaty paw. “Name’s Dan The Dentist, cause that’s what I do for a living. We’re here to help.”

Tracy looked at Cynthia, who smiled and said, “God bless us, every one.”

She rolled her eyes, but met Dan’s hand with her own.


With the camouflage of hundreds of bikes, the trip moved along at a good clip. Cynthia took turns riding among the various sidecars, ducking down when the police neared. If any patrols decided to follow, a group of bikers, some with their own daughters riding side, broke off and lured them away.

Within hours the group caught sight of their destination: the Mendocino Cliffs overlooking the Pacific. Tracy pulled out her cell and made a call. A cloud of dust rose as the ride grumbled to an end.

Tracy strode over to the bike holding Cynthia. The little girl looked pale, her breath coming in gasps. “We’re here?”

“Yeah, baby. We’re here.” Tracy gathered the frail girl in her arms and carried her to the edge of the cliff, assorted bikers standing back in a respectful wall of leather and jeans.

She sat tailor-style, Cynthia cradled in her lap. She only had to wait an hour before she heard the helicopter land, spotlighted by the bright purples, reds, and oranges of the setting sun.

Police cars, sirens blaring, raced up. A distraught man and woman, grief etched on their faces, ran to their daughter. The bikers parted to let them pass, closing ranks to hold the officers back.

Tracy stood, holding the rapidly fading Cynthia out for her mother to hold. “She doesn’t have much time left. Her last wish was for the three of you to be here at the end.” She leaned in and whispered to the mother. “I don’t care if you stay together or not, but you lie to this little girl, if you have to.”

Tracy stood back a few feet, giving them privacy. When the mother’s head bowed and her tears fell on unfeeling cheeks, she turned and nodded to the awaiting bikers and police. Sirens shut off and the rumble of hundreds of bikes starting paid homage to one little girl with a dream.

There was nothing left for her to do but walk away.

Word Count : 750


For Speakeasy #141. The prompts: Reference the above clip in some way. Use “There was nothing left for her to do but walk away” as your last line. The challenge: Use 750 words or less to tell your story or poem.

My sincerest hopes that all my readers have a very happy Holiday season. Thank you for reading my works and your wonderful feedback! Fair winds and following seas.

Head over to Speakeasy and read some terrific writers. I am never disappointed when I make my through the entries every week.

Hope you enjoy.

And I hope you find Peace.

J. Milburn